The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(4)

Foster looked up, and then up some more at Mr. Stereotypical Jock towering above her. He was, of course, perfect. Dark hair, ridiculously blue eyes, cheekbones for days, and lots of long, lean muscles—though he would’ve been way cuter if he’d had on jeans and a T-shirt and had been carrying a book, instead of wearing that stupid plum and gold jersey and carrying a football.

He grinned, displaying perfectly straight, white teeth—of course—and handed her the box of Sour Patch Kids she’d dropped. “Call me Tate Nighthawk Taylor.”

Foster rolled her eyes so hard she almost lost her balance. “Wait, I’m sorry,” she said with mock innocence. “Did you say Night Douche?” She shook her head. “No,” she cringed. “That sounds too much like some kind of medical procedure. My mistake. You must have said Douchehawk. Yeah, that’s what it was.”

“What? No. That makes me sound like an ass, and I’m not. Seriously. Ask anyone. I am not an ass.”

“I see anatomy is not your strong suit.”

A column of uniforms jogged by, their cleats crunching on the track ringing the football field. “Nighthawk! Let’s go, bro! Coach will shit if we’re not huddled up soon.”

“Yeah, I’m coming!” Tate called to the players as he started jogging slowly backward, following the rear of the pack. “Hey, Strawberry, let me show you how not an ass I am.”

“Jesus! Don’t call me Strawberry.”

“Then tell me your name!”

She sighed. “Foster.”

“Well, Foster, there’s always a party after we win. And as long as I’m out there, we’re winning. How ’bout I give you my number, so you can find out where it’s at, and so I can show you how much of a non-ass, nice guy I am?”

“Answer a question first.”

“Shoot, Strawberry!”

“What’s your favorite book?”

“Sports Illustrated!” He winked.

“Yep, exactly what I thought.”

Pink bloomed in his cheeks.

I’d be embarrassed, too. Maybe he realized he sounded like a total douche—hawk or not.

Then he started to speak again, and she decided it was probably sun and not sense coloring his cheeks.

“My number’s really easy to remember. It’s just—”

Foster held up her hand. “No. Just no. Not if my life depended on it. But good luck out there, Douchehawk.” She gave him a salute, spun on her heels, and headed to section one twenty-five, her feet clomping noisily as she trudged up the aluminum bleachers.

Cora was examining the flimsy little one-page program as Foster slid in next to her. “You will not believe what just happened,” Foster said around a mouthful of sour Skittles. “I met the most stereotypical jock douchebag. He asked me out. Sorta.”

“On a date?” Cora’s brow hit her hairline.

Foster snorted, sounding a lot like her adoptive mom. “Not the kind you used to get asked out on to the disco back in the eighties or whenever. This is one of those, ‘show up at this place, and if I feel like hanging out with you, I will, but if not, I never officially asked you to go with me, so you can’t get mad’ things. Total guy garbage logic.” Annoyed, she popped another Skittle into her mouth and chewed sharply. “And I’m sure it was really just about him showing me how awesome he, and everyone in Podunk, Misery, thinks he is.”

“For the last time, it’s Missouri, not misery,” Cora said. “And the disco? In the eighties? Really? Baby girl, you gotta stop watching so many sci-fi shows and start with those history programs that are on your schedule. If you want to graduate, that is.”

“I know a lot about World War Two. You can quiz me, which should get me at least a few extra points toward my history homework.” Foster paused, waiting hopefully for Cora to give her a break on the boring documentaries.

“You don’t get extra points for learning about something that’s not in this semester’s curriculum. You should be doing that regardless.”

“Fine,” Foster huffed. “But back to my interaction with the native Missourian, the guy introduced himself as Tate Nighthawk Taylor. Nighthawk! I swear, I can’t make this crap up. Isn’t that like the most ridiculous dudebro thing you’ve ever heard?”

“Tate Taylor?” Cora asked.

“Yeah, Tate Douchehawk Taylor. Can’t forget that part.”

Cora sighed.

“What?” Foster asked, taking a swig out of Cora’s water bottle.

“The person we’re here to meet, his name is—”

“No,” Foster interrupted. “Don’t do this to me, Cora.”

“Tate Taylor.”





2


TATE


Tate inhaled deeply as he jogged into the locker room. The scent of Icy Hot and sweat said he was where he belonged—home. Guys he’d been playing with since peewee football milled around, popping towels and smacking shoulder pads as they tried to harness pregame nerves and psyche themselves up for Homer High School’s version of Friday Night Lights. Tate didn’t need to psyche himself up. His two favorite things were brewing just outside the locker room—a big storm, and a big game.

His least favorite thing, though, had him staring blankly into his locker as he considered bashing his forehead against its metal sides. Tate Nighthawk Taylor sucked at talking to girls. And if the girl was pretty …