Ivy slides down my back and spins me to face her. She goes up on her toes, puts her palm on my cheek and forces me to look at her. “Hey, what’s the matter with you? We just won the game. We should be celebrating.”
“Yeah, celebrating. Tonight.” She gives me a wide smile and wets her bottom lip. She looks like she has something to say but I speak first. “How come you never told me you had a sister?”
Her eyes narrow, turn venomous, then, as if catching herself, she gives a dismissive wave and chuckles. “Ella. Oh, come on. She’s head movie nerd and has nothing in common with us. Why on earth would I mention her?”
“I don’t know. I just thought you might have…” And Ella and I both like movies, so we do have something in common. Not that Ivy would know or care about what I liked. I’m a footballer, and I’m not naïve. I know people see me as a dumb jock. My goal is to make it to the NFL, but it’s good to have a backup plan just in case, and when I retire, I’d like to write a screenplay about a horrific incident that happened to Brady and me when we were fourteen. Putting that incident down on paper might sound ridiculous to some—especially since I’m having a hard time passing English—which is why I’ve never told anyone I wanted to document that day. Not even my best friend.
“Well, she’s hardly your type,” she says, and sidles up to me. Her hands go to my chest and her fingers spread. “No sense in bringing her up.”
“Landon, come on for Fuck sake,” Caleb says. “Let’s get this meeting over and get a cold one.”
I put my hands on Ivy’s and remove them from my chest. “Gotta go. Team meeting. See you later.”
Disappointment moves over her face. “Sure, and you can count on seeing me later.”
I pause for a brief second. What is all this attention suddenly about? Sure, she’s gorgeous, but she goes for the pretty boys. Why the sudden change? I have no time to think about that when our infamous quarterback, Brady—my best friend and roommate—grabs me by the collar and hauls me backward.
“Dude,” I say and he lets me go and throws his arm around me. He punches me in the gut.
“Hey, Ivy, huh?”
I look over my shoulder in time to see Ivy turn, her gaze zeroed in on her sister, who is packing up her equipment. I can’t see Ivy’s face, but her stance is tight, her palms fisted at her sides. Something tells me the twin sisters don’t get along. Here I thought twins were tight.
“That girl is tight.”
“Yeah…tight. I was just thinking about that.”
“That’s my boy,” Brady says, and squeezes his arm around my neck. Of course we’re both talking about something entirely different. I laugh it off, and he says, “You getting with her tonight?”
“Is that all you think about?” I ask.
“Of course not.” He plasters on a mostly serious face. “You know I think about football too.”
I laugh at that. “If I don’t start thinking about English…” I stop and make a slicing motion across my neck. “Benched.”
Brady goes completely serious, and that’s one of the things I love most about him. He’s a baller and a man whore, but he cares about me and my future. Ever since that day we skipped school and got caught in a lockdown at the theater… my brain freezes, and a shiver goes through me as I take a trip down memory lane. Well, we were always best buds, but after that horrific day, we bonded in a deeply meaningful way. Apparently, trauma can really bring two people together.
“You need a tutor, man.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”
He goes quiet like he’s deep in thought. “Why don’t you check in with student services?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
In the locker room, we’re all in a good mood, everyone ribbing each other and talking about our plays. A few palms land on my back, congratulating me on my touchdown. We all shower, and thirty minutes later we’re in the classroom. Whether we win or not, Coach likes to go over the rival team’s plays right after the game, when they’re fresh in our mind.
I’m still keyed up as I grab a seat and pull out my notepad as Coach stares at a file on his desk. His head lifts and a knot tightens in my gut as his gaze cuts to me. Fuck. Why do I get a feeling that worried look on his face has something to do with my English grade? I stifle a laugh. I’m the guy who wants to write a screenplay. Who the hell do I think I am? If the NFL doesn’t pan out, my dad has a nice little corner office in his car dealership.
The door yawns open and my thoughts switch gears when I catch a glimpse of sweet little Ella with her hair stuffed under a ballcap, shuffling a camcorder, tripod, and backpack. I zero in on the freckles around her nose, and a surge of energy has me sitting up a bit straighter as adrenaline rushes through my blood.
She steps inside, and lets out a loud oomph when she almost trips on the bag one of the guys left on the floor. I’m two seconds from jumping up and grabbing her when she finds her balance, and tries not to look embarrassed. Brady’s gaze goes from Ella to me, and he angles his head with a pensive look on his face as I try to relax my shoulders and present casual.
There is no way for him to know she’s Ivy’s sister from where we sit, and okay, yeah, it’s true, she’s not the kind of girl I gravitate toward, which is why Brady is giving me a curious look. I’m not sure what it is about her, I only know that something about the audio/visual girl interests me. Could it be the chase? Or could it be something more? I don’t know and maybe I shouldn’t give that any deeper consideration. I have a career to focus on and an English class to pass. Fucking is a team pastime. Relationships, not so much, and Ella has long term written all over her, and definitely not with a baller.
Coach calls Ella up to his desk, and a few minutes later, the game she recorded fills the large white movie screen at the front of the class. I spot myself in the background warming up before the game. Guess she must have hit the play button early. Ella backs away, and heads toward the door, and I stare at her backside, drawn to the curves she hides behind baggy overalls.
“Great job today, guys, and there’s one play I definitely want to go over,” Coach says, pulling our attention forward as he hits his screen with his long pointer. He circles his desk, and stands before us. He directs the pointer at Blake. “Blake, when you ran—”
“Peyton, cut it out.”
Coach shuts his mouth and his brow furrows when a voice fills the room—Ella’s voice. Holy shit. My gaze jerks to Ella. Her hand goes perfectly still, inches from the knob, and her entire body stiffens. Jesus, is she even breathing?
“Don’t you have football players to drool over?”
“I don’t know what you have against tight pants. Look at all those cute butts and luscious muscles. Talk about slurpalicious. Don’t you want one little nibble, one taste?”
“No. No nibbles. No tastes.”
“What the fuck?” Jared says, as desks scrape the floor, every player leaning forward to better listen to the private exchange between Ella and Peyton.
Ella spins, her mouth agape. Wide eyes meet Coach’s. “Turn it off,” she shrieks her voice bordering on hysteria.