“Let’s go!” Coach Baker yells.
Morning practices start with us dividing into our positions and warming up, then running drills before we come together and run offensive drills. I sprint to the sideline, closely followed by our two other quarterbacks. Our single practices have been split into two ninety-minute practices, a limit the NCAA has established that we stretch by adding mandatory weight lifting and hours of watching and dissecting game tape.
“Lawson, lead your team,” Coach Baker says, giving me a nod of confidence and awareness that brings me back to last year when he had absolute faith in me.
I nod and start doing drop steps around the small, chalked perimeter. We continue, each movement specific to our small trio that has us working on our footwork.
“Nice job. Cooke, I want you to start off with the drop plays.”
Before shit hit the fan, this was my role. There was never any question. I led the warmups. I led each drill. I wore the red shirt for every offensive and defensive set on the field. Poppy might have offered me a little leniency, but it’s clear I have a long way to go to get his respect and trust back.
10
Poppy
I don’t know what I expected from a fake relationship. I’m still not sure that I do now, five days into this endeavor, but showing up to an address that Paxton texted to me along with an invitation to go to a party before we even understand where we stand and how we’re going to orchestrate this ruse is not it. I’m a planner through and through. I like lists—checklists, grocery lists, to-do lists. Winging it has never been my strong suit. Not only am I a terrible liar, but a lack of planning awakens my anxiety, and right now, that anxiety is taking the shape of an ulcer in my stomach as I stare at the large brick house.
I double-check the address and feel my lungs deflate at the realization I likely won’t know anyone but Paxton tonight. We’re forty-five minutes south of Seattle, in a neighborhood I don’t know by sight or name.
Questions about what will happen tonight are floating through my head as I lock my car and cross the street. Am I going to be hanging out alone? Am I his DD? Rae was right—we need to make some rules.
The house smells like pot, but that’s not my first realization as I step through the door. No, the first thing I’m aware of is how everyone is dressed like they’re from the early nineties, wearing colorful tracksuits, stone-washed jeans, and sunglasses with colored lenses. This is why I like to plan.
I peer around like I might recognize someone, noting how nearly everyone is drinking. A guy with dark hair stares at me, and when I look at him, he grins. My reciprocated smile is an automatic response rather than an intention. Rae thinks I’m adept at flirting, but really, it’s just that I’m good at smiling, which is what I’ve learned most people want to see, including and not limited to guys at parties.
I continue moving farther into the house before he can make his way over to me, and find Paxton in the kitchen. He’s talking with a girl whose hair is dyed a dark burgundy shade.
This is awkward.
Paxton’s attention shifts to me and recognition has his eyes brightening. “Poppy!”
I lift my hand and wave.
“Come here!” he yells.
I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to dating. After all, aside from Mike, I haven’t dated many guys. But, based upon what I see when hanging out with Lincoln and Rae, which is pretty much always, they don’t tend to yell across the room at one another.
I hold up a finger and point toward the keg. I don’t actually intend to get beer, but a glass of water will help deter people from offering me a drink and offer a reasonable excuse not to contribute if the conversation gets too weird.
Pax nods his understanding, his gaze returning to the girl with unnaturally red hair.
I find a tower of stacked Solo cups and lift the top one off before taking the second and returning the top cup again. It’s a trick I learned after watching how many people drop the cup under the one they take off of the top and then return it to the stack.
“You know beer kills all the germs?” a guy with white-blonde hair and light blue eyes says. His lips are in a measured line, making it difficult to determine if he’s condemning me or flirting with me. Sarcasm can be such a fickle bitch, especially when you’re already feeling self-conscious.
“Water doesn’t, though,” I tell him.
“Water?” His question is laced with judgment as I go over his facial features again, noting the way his eyes are pinched, and his lips are thinned with what appears like a sneer. “Let me guess; you prefer wine. White, not red, but you don’t know any of the actual names or differences, just that you prefer the sweet ones.”
He’s mostly right, but because he’s being a dick about it, I have no intention of admitting this. I blame guys like him and Chase for why my dating history continues to be brief. Last fall, I’d thought it would be fun to date around. Per the picture that Hollywood movies had painted, I’d assumed this looked like grabbing coffee and making small talk, maybe going out to watch a live band play, flirting through texts, and kissing. Lots and lots of kissing. Then I attended my first college party, and realized dating around in college largely consists of messy make-outs where you both smell and taste like warm beer, fumbling hands and unpracticed fingers pulling at bra clasps, and exchanging your phone number with a dozen people and only hearing from one who inevitably texts
