Crawling out of the cabinet, I rise to my feet, brushing my hair out of my face before I wipe the dust off my clothes. The teacher is only a few feet away, her back to me as she tilts her head and talks to the very tall, very male student in front of her.
“No, Mr. Callahan, I can’t fit you into my other art classes,” Mrs. Sanborne says, sounding irritated. “Art 1 is the only class you qualify for.”
“But the team conditioning class is this period,” he says. “I can’t miss it.”
Oh crap. It’s Jake Callahan.
I turn away from them, not wanting him to see me. But I don’t move.
I want to hear what he has to say.
“Don’t they offer a conditioning class before school as well?” Mrs. Sanborne asks. “For situations just like this?”
Our small school can’t always accommodate everyone’s schedule. Usually for football gods, they do. But I guess Jake can’t get out of his fine arts requirement. He shouldn’t have waited so long.
“Or can’t you take Theater 1?” Mrs. Sanborne asks before he can respond. “It shouldn’t interfere with your conditioning class.”
“They only offer it second period, which would make me have to change my entire schedule. Plus, that class is full of freshmen,” he mutters, like that’s the worst thing in the world.
I almost start laughing. I actually have to clap my hand over my mouth to stifle it.
“This is my only Art 1 class scheduled this year,” Mrs. Sanborne says, crossing her arms. “You can either take this, or theater. It’s your choice. I’m not budging, Mr. Callahan. Not even for you.”
I wonder if Jake’s made other teachers “budge” for him before. I’m sure administration has stepped in a time or two. I bet his dad has a lot of power here as well, but would he actually do that? I’ve heard his dad, former NFL quarterback Drew Callahan, is pretty laidback. He has the respect of everyone at this school, teachers, admin and students alike. The year Asher Davis was quarterback, they won league and district championships, but lost in the final battle for state. Last year, they won league, but not district. I heard Jake was devastated and is determined to win everything this year, no matter what.
How do I know this? Uh, social media. School rallies. In fact, we have one scheduled tomorrow, between fourth and fifth period.
“Whatever,” Jake mutters before he strides out of the classroom, his long legs taking him far in a short amount of time.
Impressive.
Ugh. Not impressive! Forget that guy! He wanted to make fun of you and you’re standing here in a daze, secretly admiring him.
Mrs. Sanborne turns to face me, shaking her head. “It’s not my fault he waited until he was a senior to meet his fine art requirement.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I say with a little laugh.
“Certain people in this world believe they can get whatever they want, and they don’t have to put in the hard work,” Sanborne continues. “And you are definitely not one of them, Hannah. I’ve never seen someone work so hard, and I’ve been here almost twelve years.”
I smile, basking in her compliment. I do work hard. Harder than most.
Definitely harder than Jacob Callahan.
Three
Jake
“Go, go, go, go, go!” Dad shouts from the sideline, his hands cupped around his mouth, his words all for me. The ball is in my hands, I’m ready to throw it, when out of nowhere, someone tackles me, taking me straight to the ground, my head knocking inside my helmet.
Fuck.
“Better watch out.” Caleb, the very one who took me down, smacks the back of my helmet before he stands, offering his hand to me. “I don’t even think you saw me.”
I take his hand, muttering a thank-you under my breath. He’s right. I didn’t. Caleb is one of our best defensive ends. This is why I’m so damn glad he’s on our team. Our coaches decided to do a best of the best game for practice today, pitting the first-string offense against the first-string defense, and the game is kicking my ass. It doesn’t help that it’s ninety-five degrees in the shade. Didn’t we move to the mountains for a reason? Like cooler weather?
“Come on, Callahan! You can do this!” someone yells, and I realize it’s Diego.
Thank God for friends. Though we give each other endless shit, when it comes down to it, they have my back. Even when I’m full of doubt.
Am I ready for tomorrow night, our first game of the season? I thought so.
But now I’m not so sure.
We run through a few more plays, and I finally get the ball to my tight end—Tony—and he runs it into the end zone with ease. But there’s no encouraging words or even slaps on the back when the game is through. Everyone’s stressed. You can feel it in the air, see it shimmering along with the heat.
I’m not helping matters. I’m tense as hell. We all are. Tomorrow’s game shouldn’t be a difficult one; it’s not even a league game. They’re a semi-local team we’ve been playing against for years, and nine times out of ten, we win. We have home field advantage, which always helps. The crowds, the cheer team, the band—hell, everyone will be cheering us on, even the community, and I should revel in it. It’s my last year and I should feel on top of the world.
But I don’t. Shit is getting to me and the season has barely started.
The defensive coach blows his whistle and tells us practice is over. I jog along with everyone else toward the locker room, my gaze locked on my dad, who’s clutching a clipboard and no doubt going over the play sheet.
“Jake, a minute?” he says as I pass by, not even bothering to glance up.
He must have telepathy, I swear.
I stop before him, running a hand over my sweaty head, clutching my helmet in my other hand. “What’s up, Coach?”
Dad looked up, his gaze meeting mine. “What the hell, Jake? You let Caleb sneak up on you and he was literally growling like a maniac the entire time he made his approach. You didn’t hear him?”
No, I didn’t. And I feel like a dumbass for it, thank you very much. “I was too focused on throwing the ball, I guess.”
“Son, there’s nothing wrong with being focused. But you have to be focused on every single thing. Every little aspect when you’re in the moment. A simple move could turn into brilliance, or it could turn into disaster.” Dad tilts his head, contemplating me. “What I witnessed a few minutes ago could’ve been a disaster.”
“I never dropped the ball.”
“Thank God for that.” He reaches out, tapping the edge of his clipboard against my chest. “Watch yourself.”
I nod, my jaw growing tight. Can’t the old man ever give me a compliment?
Lately, that would be a no.
“You going straight home?” he asks.
I nod again.
“I’ll be here for another hour at least, probably longer. I’m staying for Beck’s practice.” My little brother is in youth football and he’s a defensive lineman. The little fucker could probably take me down if he was determined enough. “See ya later.”
Dismissed, I make my way to the locker room, keeping my head down as I enter. Pretty much everyone is near buck-ass naked, and I’m not in the mood to see a bunch of swinging dicks or hear their bragging mouths.