One geek in the Math Club had thought to be funny and served me a diet soda when I'd ordered a regular. So there I was, nasty aftertaste clinging to my tongue, waiting for the jocks to arrive. I watched the line of red taillights as the parking lot cleared. A few people lingered, grouped by their cars, laughing and talking. My brother was among one of those crowds, waiting for me to finish my interview.
Marty didn't live at home anymore but he'd been going to the game anyway and had reluctantly let me ride with him.
He'd graduated a couple of years before but since he was immature and had been a class clown, my generation still remembered and welcomed him into their clutches.
The opposing team shuffled onto their bus with their heads lowered. And here came the champs. Braying like a bunch of coon dogs, they looked pumped and riled. The ground rumbled under my feet as the stampede approached.
Still huddled together in one lumped mass, they came, charging toward the side door of the gym that led to their locker room. Cleats click-clacked on the asphalt parking lot, reminding me of my Great Aunt Kay's dog, Chigger, who liked to run across her linoleum floor, creating as much clatter as 11
possible. The team blew by me, smelling of musty earth, sports cream and sweat.
I couldn't spot Coach Newell, but there he was, trailing at the end, grinning with the rest of the idiots: quarterback Luke Carter.
I rose onto my toes and waved my hand. "Luke," I called, and quickly dropped my fingers when I realized I probably looked like some overeager groupie.
The chanting was too loud, though. One player did glance my way, but moved on without speaking. All he saw of me was a long brown trench coat with a mop of fuzzy blond hair sticking out the top. Nothing worth pausing over, I'm sure.
"Carter!" I put a little more gut into the call and finally caught his attention.
In his red jersey smeared brown, he faltered a step, his head swiveling my way. Then with a quick sidestep, he slipped from the group and came toward me. The streetlights played the shadows like a puppeteer, dangling darkness over his torso and down. When he emerged from the shadows, I sucked in a breath. The football pads made his shoulders seem wider and his chest twice as broad, while thigh pads made his waistline look especially slim. He moved like he was full of cardboard, stiff and ambling.
He towered over me, a looming six feet two inches tall (according to the football roster) to my five feet seven. His helmet was off, hanging at his side, and he'd wrapped his fingers around the face guard. A cut across his right eyebrow sliced toward the corner of his eye. Tiny etches of blood filled the cracks and defined the spot where he'd have a healthy 12
showing of crow's feet someday. His wet black hair curled slightly down his forehead and around his ears. And his eyes were a blue so clear that if they'd been a lake, I could've seen right to their rocky bottoms.
Finally, he smiled...and I wanted to kick him. He had a row of bright white teeth with a bit of an overbite, and a dimple I could've fallen into.
I hated him for that grin. I mean, how dare he look at me with those blue orbs and display such a genuine smile? I didn't want it. I didn't want to step into line behind every other girl in school whose heart went into double-thump for this boy. He had no right to give me that busted-ice feeling.
Yeah, busted ice. It's like making instant gelatin the fast way with ice instead of cold water. When the ice cubes drop into the boiling gelatin they crack and sometimes bust into a hundred pieces. Well, my stomach was full of a dozen of those cubes, busting and cracking all over inside me because Luke Carter was a vision.
"Yeah?" he asked, resting his helmet against his hip.
"Carrie Paxton," I said, sticking my hand in the space of air between us. I tried to keep it professional despite my irritation over the busted ice in my gut. "Editor of The Central Record."
"I know." He took my hand. Compared to his, my fingers were small and weak. "You're in my Trig class."
His handshake was cold and slightly damp. He squeezed my palm before letting go. My mouth dropped open.
He wasn't supposed to know that about me.
13
I'm sorry. But no girl, despite how much that girl doesn't care about popularity and all that junk, can remain calm when someone like Luke Carter shakes her hand and actually knows her name. OK, I admit he should've known my name. We'd gone to the same school since kindergarten. But noticing me enough to realize we shared a class? No way.
"Oh," I said. If I'd had any air left in my lungs, I might've been able to continue, but I did a fairly decent job of making a fool out of myself as it was. "Well. I...I...I mean, is it OK to talk to you, er, ask you a few questions about the game? For the paper, that is."