The other team arrives for the practice match against Silver Lake High. A few of them spot me on the sidelines. They smirk and smack each other. One brave one heads for my end of the field to warm up, flexing his biceps to stretch the yellow jersey. There’s a dark blue #11 on his chest.
He waves to me.
I lift my eyebrows, unaffected.
Devlin appears behind the guy, a whole head taller. The expression on his face isn’t any different from his mask, but I see a deadly fury in the tense set of his chiseled jaw and the tight corners of his eyes.
He mutters something to Eleven. Whatever he says, it makes the guy stalk off to his team’s end of the field to finish his warm up. Devlin remains where Eleven set up, dribbling the ball with some fancy footwork.
Devlin glances my way, sticking his tongue between his teeth in a smug grin when he finds my attention on him.
Showoff.
Once the practice match begins, it’s time for me to cheer. I’ve never gone to a game and I make a point of avoiding the cheerleaders in school.
When Devlin runs by with the ball, I clap and give a sad, “Woo!”
Devlin catches my eye a few minutes later. His unimpressed expression says it all: do better.
Sighing, I raise my efforts.
When Bishop faces off against two offensive players from the other team and steals the ball from them, I cup my hands around my mouth to cheer him on. Bishop points to me, grinning as he weaves the ball between his feet to keep his possession.
The game moves fast. One minute the ball is down near our goal keeper, then in the next Bishop and Devlin are moving in formation with the rest of the team. It’s kind of fascinating to watch. They’re quick, strategic, and damn good at moving the ball.
Bishop and Devlin are a force to be reckoned with, both on their own and when they attack together.
The ball passes in a blur from player to player on our team. I find myself cheering with more heart.
“Come on guys!”
I shuffle down the sidelines, closer to the group of girls who haven’t shut up since the first whistle. They’re better at this than I am. I listen to what they’re saying for ideas, but all they’ve got is endless girlish squealing when Devlin has the ball.
“You’ve got this, ten!” I cup my hands around my mouth and jump when Bishop pulls off a cool twist that cages the ball between his feet. “Get the ball!”
Bishop must hear me, because his wide smile is energetic as he drives down the field, passing to Devlin. Together they sprint as a coordinated force. Their opponents don’t know how to counter their attack. Devlin has the ball and he lines up a shot, kicking it hard. It flies in a beautiful arc and misses the diving goalie’s outstretched hands, landing in the back of the net.
The whistle sounds, confirming Devlin’s goal.
“Woo! Go Coyotes!”
I have no idea what’s come over me, but I’m getting sucked into
the game. It’s becoming easier to cheer them on. I don’t have to fake my enthusiasm. Most of the team smiles at me when they run by, like I’m their personal one-woman cheer squad.
Halfway through the match, I remember what’s coming at the end. I freeze mid-clap.
Crap.
The game has swept me up so much, I forgot that cheering isn’t enough. If I want to get paid, I have to kiss Devlin.
It’s the last thing I’d ever do, but…
As my eyes track him moving around the field like a bullet, my stomach flips. I’m not dreading a kiss. The energy of the game is feeding my adrenaline.
Heaven—or maybe hell—help me, I’m anticipating his lips on mine.
The resounding truth in that thought makes me sink my teeth into my cheek.