When I wheel my suitcase through the front door, however, I don’t have to worry about how I look. Because Rylie and Natalie jump up from the couch, matching worried looks on their faces.
“There you are!” Natalie says, throwing her arms around me. “We’ve been trying to call you.”
I’d turned my phone off on the plane. Only now do I realize I hadn’t bothered to turn it back on. Concerned, I ask, “What’s wrong?”
They share a look, and for a heart-racing moment, I remember Summer Prescott. Of her catching me and Spencer and oh god—
She told. She told my secret.
I wait for the apprehension. For the sinking feeling in my stomach of being discovered.
It never comes.
They know. They know, and I am absolutely, completely, a thousand times fine with it. Because there’s all these emotions in me, rolling and twisting, and I need, I need, to talk to someone about them.
I laugh. With nerves and relief and hopelessness. When they stare at me, I laugh more, clutching my middle and the tears come rushing back. I wipe them away, and finally admit, “Yes, I’m in love with Spencer. We’re sleeping together.”
Rylie’s eyes go round. Natalie blinks. At the same time, they both go, “What?”
“Wait,” I freeze. “What are you talking about?”
“What?” Natalie repeats.
“Prescott Hall,” Rylie explains. She holds out her phone. To The Weekly’s homepage. “Somebody vandalized it.”
“What?” That’s me, grabbing the phone. Reading over the article with a headline of Breaking News!
Natalie slaps it out of my hand before I can read any more. “Forget that. What?”
I pause, glancing between them. Their shocked expressions. And I sigh, shoulders drooping.
“Rylie,” Natalie points at the kitchen. “Turn on the coffee. Grab snacks. Emergency girls night, right now.” Rylie hops to it. Natalie turns to me. “You. Start talking. I want details. Starting with—how big is his penis?”
33
Spencer
My phone beeps with a new message right as my hand grasps the stadium athlete entrance door. Deciding I have time, I don’t enter the building and check the message.
It’s a video. From Kennedy. In it, she flips open a notebook, and the first thing I see reads, ‘Reasons Why You’ve Got This’. She turns to the next page, and I laugh, because of course, she’s made a list, counting down from ten, and the first reason is: You’re really, really good at football.
She probably timed exactly how long it would take me to walk from my class to the football stadium and sent the message right when I’d be arriving to meet with Morris’s dad and the scout.
I wait, watching her turn each page. Read each and every reason why she thinks I’ve ‘got this’. She shares my stats. Boasts my touchdown numbers. Reminds me of my dedication. Nods empathetically at how much I can bench press and how long my stamina lasts. Jabs her finger on the page that says, If they don’t realize how amazing you are, they’re sightless, brainless ignoramuses.
And finally, she reaches the number one reason. One that leaves me grinning like a fool, since all it says is, You’ve got this… because you’re Spencer Fucking Armstrong.
I watch the video twice before I realize I’ll be late if I linger any more. I exchange my phone for my student ID and enter the stadium. Change in the locker room and head to the field. Hart warms up and Morris talks to two older men. One stands tall and bulky, with a head of graying blond hair. The other looks out of place in a suit, turned away as he yaps into a cell phone.
“Armstrong,” the older blond man calls me over. “Glad to see you could make it.”
“Sergeant,” I greet with a nod.
“Shame about that playoff fumble,” Trevor Morris says in the next breath. He lands a heavy hand on my captain’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Course, Theodore should have run that play with you more to make sure you had it.”
Morris crosses his arms. “Spencer made three downs in the second quarter. Sir.”
“I’m not saying he didn’t do good. You could have made him do better—”
“Hey, are we doing this or what?” Hart calls from his warm up, stopping them from talking about me, in front of me, any longer.
I clench my fist, then release it with a breath. Morris’s nostril flare, doing breathing of his own. We glance at each other, and when the Sergeant turns to talk to the scout, I roll my eyes behind his back. Morris snorts, then hides it with a cough when his dad looks over his shoulder at us.
We warm up with Hart, and then strap on our helmets for the real fun. Morris calls each drill, every play that perfectly shows off our strength and agility and teamwork on the field. We run the ball, passing and dodging with quick reflexes.
At first, my eyes linger on the scout, who never puts down his phone, but soon, with each increasingly difficult call from the quarterback, I lose myself in playing. It becomes less a demonstration of speed and prowess and more a pick-up game of diversion. Of laughter and taunts and shooting the shit with my friends. Even Morris, under the watchful eye of his father, rolls some stiffness off his shoulders when Hart and I gang up to tackle him.
I’ve got this. I’m fucking amazing at this sport. I have the stats and the dedication to prove it. I’m Spencer Fucking Armstrong. And if they don’t see that…
They’re sightless, brainless ignoramuses.
Morris wraps up our practice. All three of us drip with sweat and pant with exertion, but we bump fists and clap shoulders at a good run.
The scout holds his phone away from his ear when we walk off the field. He says nothing, but shakes Hart’s hand, then Morris’s. When I reach for his, he holds up a finger to check a message.
After an awkward moment, he sets
