Complete Nothing (True Love #2)(53)
The team cheered, rising from the benches, smacking helmets together, slapping backs, bumping chests. This was usually my favorite part of the pregame. The adrenaline, the team spirit, the confidence. But today I felt sick. Sick and angry and, annoyingly, tired. I’d been up half the night replaying that crap with Claudia and Keegan Traylor over and over in my head. Seeing his shit-eating grin. Wishing I’d coldcocked him in the face. Wondering what they were doing while I writhed in my bed, frustrated and helpless.
Just to make everything worse, there were scouts coming today. No sleep and scouts in the stands. Plus, I’d never finished those applications. Not that it mattered. I was sure I was going to be totally unfocused out there, eat dirt a couple dozen times, and neither one of the schools would want me anyway.
How the hell had Claudia met Keegan Fucking Traylor? That was the question. And why? And didn’t she know how screwed up that was, going out with the QB of St. Joe’s? Didn’t she care about me even a tiny bit? Or how it would look to everyone?
How about when you dumped me in front of half the school? I heard her say in my mind. How much were you caring about me then?
And of course, she’d be right. But still. Keegan Fucking Traylor? And at Dave & Buster’s, where half our school hung out every weekend? That was just wrong. And he was the one who was going to pay for it.
Coach Morschauser and the assistants led the charge out the locker room door for the field, but I grabbed Moskowitz and Gavin and held them back.
“WTF, dude?” Josh said, shrugging me off.
“Carson! Frangipane! Get over here!” I half shouted to the other key members of the defense.
They stopped and loped toward me while the rest of the team trotted out after the coaches. The four biggest guys in school formed a semicircle around me. I waited until the door squealed and slammed. Then I looked them each in the eye.
“What’s up, QB-one?” Frangipane asked in his raspy voice.
I loved when they called me that. That was when I knew they had my back.
“I need you guys to rip Keegan Traylor’s head off,” I said, through my teeth.
They laughed. “Of course we will,” Moskowitz said good-naturedly.
I slapped Gavin’s chest plate with the back of my hand as he started to turn away, stopping him.
“No, guys. I’m serious.”
The vibe in the room shifted to all business. “What’s up, Pete?” Gavin asked, chucking his chin.
“That asswipe took Claudia out last night,” I told them, barely able to bite out the words. Their eyes widened as they exchanged shocked, appalled, furious glances. “I need you to cause him pain.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Claudia
As soon as the St. Joe’s Saints ran out onto the field, I started to scan their ranks for Keegan. Unfortunately, the players looked alike in their green and yellow uniforms with their helmets on, and there were no names on their jerseys. Plus, they were lining up on the far side of the field in front of the away bleachers, which were packed with fans in green and yellow. The sun glinted off the gold helmets, as if each player had a tiny gleaming star attached to his head.
“Oh, they’re one of those teams,” Lauren said wisely.
“What teams?” Mia Ross asked, plucking a kernel of popcorn from her bag on my other side. Her long blond hair was up in a bun, and she wore a blue LCHS sweatshirt over skinny jeans. Her best friend, Rhonda, and two other sophomores giggled next to her, checking out some boys across the way.
“The ones who are like, ‘It’s not about the player, it’s about the team,’?” Lauren replied, putting on a snooty voice. “Don’t they get that we want to know whose cute butt we’re looking at?”
“Lauren!” I scolded, looking behind me at the group of players’ moms on the riser above. They wore their usual jeans, Tshirts, and blazers, with blue and white ribbons pinned to their lapels—the definition of athlete-mom chic. The most ardent mom, Mrs. Moskowitz, had blue-and-white streaks painted on one cheek, and her son’s number—56—on the other. Which was odd, because she wasn’t like one of those tomboyish moms. Her nails were done, her hair perfectly shellacked into its ponytail, and she was dripping in gold jewelry. But still, the face painting. Sometimes people defied pigeonholing.
“Please. You ladies know what I’m talking about,” Lauren said, turning around to face them. “Am I right?”
They narrowed their eyes in unison, a movement that would have inspired awe over at the Studio.
“Or maybe not,” Lauren said, facing forward again.
“Can you tell which one he is?” Mia asked, leaning into me as she munched.
One of the guys at the center of the line started to bounce up and down, shaking his arms out and stretching his neck from side to side. I recognized the perfect posture and the kinetic energy right away, and felt a surprising flutter inside my chest.
“There he is. Number thirteen,” I said, pointing.
At that moment, he turned and looked at our bleachers. I could have sworn he was looking right at me. My skin flushed red.
“Oh my God, you’re smiling like an idiot,” Lauren said, sounding appalled.
“No, I’m not!” I replied.
But even though I tried as hard as I could, I had no control over my muscle function. I was, in fact, a smiling idiot.