Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(6)

Aaron dove toward me just as I caught sight of our running back ten feet away. I turned and lobbed him the pass as Aaron threw his arms around my shoulders and shoved me to the ground. I landed face first into the grass and my helmet shoveled up a spray of rubber granules. It wasn’t a hard hit. But Aaron still thought he beat me.

“How’s the turf taste, Brady?” he joked, smiling wide through his facemask. I stood up and laughed, because he hadn’t seen the last minute lob. When he realized I wasn’t holding the ball, he looked down the field to see players celebrating thirty yards away.

He pounded the grass next to him.

“If you weren’t going to help us win state this year, I’d pulverize you,” he said. I gave him a half smile, because I knew he wasn’t joking.

I pulled Aaron up and Coach called us over to review the play. As we headed to the sidelines, I noticed a flutter of movement at the end of the field. A dozen girls jogged onto the stadium steps, clad in sports bras and shorts. Their tan muscles glowed in the humid heat of the sun.

“Is that the black spandex mafia?” I asked Aaron.

He pulled off his helmet and wiped a rivulet of sweat away with his wristband. “Close. Varsity volleyball,” he said. He raised his chin toward the bleachers. “There’s a hot new transfer,” he said.

I looked where his eyes were pointing and noticed a girl leaping up the steps, all toned legs and long, svelte arms. Her golden hair whipped behind her, and caught the sunlight like a church steeple. Even from a distance, I could see she was striking. It was impossible not to notice her, like you would notice the most impressive sky rise in a city skyline.

“Bryn DeNeuville,” Aaron told me. “Take a number and get in line.” He grinned.

The girls caught us looking as they plodded down the steps and a few of them waved in our direction. Their ponytails lapped behind them.

Before I glanced away, another girl stood out. She was turned away from us, but I still noticed her. Maybe it was because her hair was loose, and underneath a baseball cap it fell long over her shoulders in dark waves. Maybe it was because I had a weakness for girls in baseball caps. Or, maybe she stood out because she was shouting like a drill sergeant leading boot camp. She screamed, heckling the girls to move it up the steps. She was the only girl who didn’t look our way, like she was immune to distraction.

...

After practice Coach Keller slapped a student newspaper in my hand.

“You’re the campus celebrity now,” he informed me.

I looked down at the cover and winced at the picture of me that consumed the entire front page. The photograph made me look like some kind of resurrected Roman Olympian, striking a javelin throwing pose. I knew they were running a feature on me, but I wasn’t expecting to be the only lead story.

I stared at the bold headline. LAST MINUTE TRANSFER: Can He Save the Cardinals? I studied the daunting question, like the answer meant the difference between life and death.

I ran a hand through my hair, still damp from the shower.

“No pressure,” I said.

Coach Keller gave my back an encouraging slap. “Take it one week at a time, Brady. One game. If you think beyond that, you’ll break.”

I looked over at him. His light blue eyes stood out against his sunburned cheeks. I wondered if his advice was referring to football or to life in general. I tucked the article under my arm and headed out of the stadium. I didn’t need to read it. I remembered the short, formal responses I gave to the reporter last week. I kept the conversation surface level and listed all the reasons I transferred here, namely that Coach Keller had spent the last fifteen years building one of the best high school football programs in the country, and I wanted to be the quarterback who took them to state. I spouted out all the quotes needed for an inspiring feature story. The article probably made me sound one-dimensional, like every brain cell in my head was attached to football, but at least people would know I was here to do my job.

When the reporter brought up my past and why I waited until my senior year to transfer, I detoured around the question. I didn’t want to go into my history. There was too much baggage. What’s another word for it? Scars. Way too many scars. It had been almost a year since my dad died, and it still felt like my insides were slashed.

I passed through the opened stadium gate and stalled.

Music streamed across the parking lot. The campus was crawling with students arriving for welcome week. Edgelake High School was a private prep school in downtown Madison, and it shared a campus with its sister school, Edgelake College. Local high school students attended for the day, but there was boarding for international students and people like me—student-athletes who came for the exposure, the coaches, the state of the art sport facilities, and the competitive schedule that made us visible to college recruiters.

I watched the mobs of cars and strangers that choked the roads and filled up the parking spots. Something held me rooted to the ground and a doubt resurfaced that I couldn’t shake.

Did I make the right decision? I burned a lot of bridges coming here. My teammates back home felt betrayed. Who jets the last year of their high school season? It was the most selfish decision I had ever made.

But nobody understood. I had to leave. It was the only way to move on. Moving here was more than fighting to prove I could lead this team to state. I was fighting to prove I could take control of my life.