Songs for Cricket by Laine, E. (best books to read in your 20s TXT) 📗

swung, nearly hitting me as I stepped forward to stop her.

“Why are your cleats here?”

All equipment was generally left in our lockers so no one would forget it at home. The equipment manager would make sure everything was in working order by next game day.

A flash of panic crossed her lovely features.

“Tell me,” I demanded.

Her shoulders slumped. “It’s nothing.”

I shook my head. “Just tell me.”

When her downcast eyes refused to meet mine, my fist balled. Had Bryant said or done something else?

“At first it just seemed like practical jokes on the new girl,” she began.

“At first?”

I tipped her chin up so I could see into her eyes. I needed to know if she was telling me everything or holding back.

“Yeah, little things like a jock strap hung in my locker or a picture of a girl in too tight, too short football gear from a magazine posted in there.”

That wasn’t so bad, but there was more.

“What else?” I asked.

She tried to turn her head, but I held her firm.

“What else?” I almost whispered, urging her on.

“Tassels put on my pads.” She focused on my jaw as I bit off a curse. They’d most likely added them where her nipples would be. “It was funny, really. But it was the first thing that got me in trouble. I couldn’t get off all the glue.”

“Was that it?”

Slowly her head turned side to side. “A few days ago, I was rushed to get my gear and didn’t pay attention that my cleats had been switched. They were so close to the same color, and I’ve worn soccer cleats for so long, I didn’t notice they weren’t my football ones.”

Anger was like a furnace in my chest. I was on the verge of a meltdown.

“Coach Ari noticed and called me out in front of the guys. What could I say? I hadn’t paid attention.”

Ari was the special teams coach in charge of extra points, kickoffs, and returns. Finley’s primary coach.

“And you didn’t tell any of us?”

“No, of course not. I’m not going to let you guys get into trouble for me, especially you.”

My hand spanned her cheek, then I pushed my fingers around the side of her head to the back. I drew her close, pressing my forehead to hers.

“Next time, you tell us.”

She swallowed audibly. “That’s not it.”

I wrapped my hand around her ponytail and cupped the back of her head to angle her face to mine.

“More?” I ground my teeth together.

“This morning, I got chewed out by the equipment manager. He held up my practice tee. A V had been cut into the neckline. He reamed me out that the shirt was to be worn under my pads to protect me, not so guys could check out my tits. Then he pointed at my new cleats and said if any more equipment of mine was damaged or had to be replaced, I would have to pay for it.”

That time I didn’t hold back my expletives. I let go of her, needing to hit something.

“And this is why you want to practice your kickoffs?”

Bile built in my gut as she glanced away. “Not exactly. Coach Ari told me today if I couldn’t do better at kickoffs, he would have to talk to Coach about letting Bryant take that part of my job.”

It wouldn’t look good for Bryant to take over any role of the kicker. It would make her vulnerable. She wasn’t great at punting or kickoffs because when we had played together with friends, those parts of the game were omitted to streamline play.

“Get your cleats, and I’ll bring a ball.”

She gave me a stiff nod. When she returned, I said, “I’m going to tell August.”

“You can’t.”

Her eyes were wild.

“I have to. He’s not only my best friend but your brother. He would kill me if I kept this from him. Coop too.”

Finally, she bobbed her head.

We ended up walking to the field because Cooper and August had the car. She didn’t say much, and neither did I. I was planning what to do about the situation. How far would I go? She was right, I was already in trouble for defending her once.

The field stood empty. It was well past dinner, though the sun hadn’t dipped below the horizon. We’d stopped in the football complex where by luck I found a football kicking tee in Bryant’s locker that was used during kickoffs.

I set the stand on the thirty-five-yard line.

“Remember, the idea is to get the ball into the end zone,” which was sixty-five yards downfield. “New rules were created so the other team would kneel for a touch back.”

She nodded and moved back to take a short running start. I used my phone to film the exact point her foot connected with the ball, so we could figure out how to tweak it.

The first go around, I’d been so entranced by her long legs, I missed the shot all together. But her ball went wide before passing the end zone, and I jogged to retrieve it before she could.

“Again,” I said when I returned before she could ask me to see the video of the turf.

Focused as she was, she nodded and got ready for another shot.

And so it went. She must have kicked a hundred balls before it got too dark to continue.

“Just remember, ten yards back, count your steps out, run in, kick with your toes down below the lower white line on the ball.”

I hadn’t been a kicker, but I knew the basics. I’d checked the web before we started to confirm the technique while she stretched.

She reached out a hand and squeezed my forearm. “Thanks.”

That moment in the dark with just the two of us, unable to stop myself, I drew her close. I leaned down, but at the last second she stepped back.

“I’ll grab the ball.”

She ran off before I could say anything, and the opportunity was gone. I pressed the heels of my palms in my eyes. I was starting not only to lose the