Chapter 4
Ainsley
Sophomore Year of High School
Landon drops into the seat in front of me and swivels around to lean his elbows onto my desk.
“Got your money ready for Saturday’s game?”
“You’re sounding awful confident for someone who only scored one point in the second half of last week’s game.”
“Westfield was all over me.” Landon hikes a nonchalant shoulder. “I couldn’t do much.”
I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Sounds like an excuse to me, Golden Boy.” My eyes flick to the splotch of purple around his cheekbone. “I don’t remember you taking a stick to the face. What happened?”
He dips his head and digs into his backpack, ignoring my question. “We’re playing Point this weekend. That’ll push my stats over the edge.” He pulls out a notebook, and sets it on my desk. Flipping to the last page, he spins it around so I can read it.
Landon
Goals: 21
Assists: 16
Ground balls: 31
Ainsley
Goals: 23
Assists: 9
Ground balls: 38
It’s color-coded, of course.
I tap my pen against the paper. “I’m beating you in goals. No way you’re gonna out-score me this weekend.”
One of his dark-brown eyebrows jumps. “You say it like it’s a sure thing.”
“I am a sure thing.”
“Look at my assists.”
I roll my eyes. “Congrats, you can pass the ball to someone else.”
“To the person who scored the goal. It’s called being a team player.”
“I’m also ahead on ground balls.” I flip the book closed. “Looks to me like I’m dominating this little bet of yours.”
“Dominating?” His brown eyes widen. “We’re practically even.”
“I think you need to refresh yourself on the definition of the word even.”
“And I think you’re afraid of the idea that someone is as good as you.”
My eyes narrow as I lean forward. “Maybe you’re just afraid that a girl is better than you.”
The bell rings and Mr. Lambert closes the classroom door before taking his spot at the front.
Landon shoots me a wink before turning around in his seat. I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile.
I try to concentrate on the lesson, but biology is about as riveting as watching paint dry. My eyes gravitate to Landon.
His leg bounces under the desk, and I watch the clock to see how long he can go. The kid is anxious as hell.
And a damn good lacrosse player. Not as good as I am, but he’s the closest thing our school has.
We’ve been competing against each other since we were freshman.
Our lacrosse teams host a fundraiser each year, and I made it my mission to raise more money than the boys.
They play on the pristine turf—we need the money more than they do.
Landon caught wind of what I was doing, and stepped up to the challenge.
We’ve been trying to one-up each other ever since.
I raised twenty-dollars more than he did in the end. I plan on doubling it this year.
Landon must be as bored as I am because his arm snakes back and he slips a small paper onto my desk. I wait until the teacher turns to write on the board before unfolding the note.
You’re going down, Morgan.
A silent laugh has my shoulders shaking as I scribble my response and toss the note over his shoulder.
Not a chance, Golden Boy.
I’m a competitive person, but there’s something about Landon Fletcher that stokes that flame in me.
Maybe it’s because he’s the only one who challenges me here. Maybe it’s because I enjoy poking the bear. He’s so easy to rile. Or maybe it’s because he gets under my skin like no one else can.
After class ends, we race to the gym. Yesterday, our PE teacher had us break off into teams and prepare for a volleyball tournament that we’d be graded on. Landon and I picked opposing teams, of course, and today we go head-to-head.
Landon nudges me with his shoulder. “I’m getting that A.”
“Keep your A. I’ll be getting an A-plus.” I flash him a grin before dipping into the locker room to change.
Several minutes later, both locker rooms empty into the gym.
Mrs. Baylor chirps her whistle once, wasting no time. “Group one, take your positions.”
I clap to get my team’s attention as the students huddle around me. “Call your hits. Communicate. Move your feet, and fill in the dead space.”
“And get the ball over the net,” Patrick says.
I gnash my teeth together. “Obviously.”
Two of the girls exchange a glance, eyes wide. “It’s just a game,” one of them says. “It’s not the world championship or anything.”
“It’s for a grade,” I snap, then soften it with a quick smile. “I don’t need PE to ruin my perfect score.”
The whistle screeches again. “We ready?”
I take my spot, glancing over my shoulder to make sure everyone’s in the right place.
Across the net, Landon locks eyes with me.
My eyes narrow as I bend my knees.
Try me, motherfucker.
A wide grin spreads across his face.
The serve comes from their side, clean and fast. My back row barely gets under the ball, and Patrick pops it too low.
“Mine!” I dive forward and tip the ball over the net.
It drops to the floor on the other side.
Point.
Patrick claps me on the back. “Nice, Morgan.”
My team rotates as we switch positions. The game moves fast, as if that first point lit the fire under everyone. Not that it helps, because my team makes sloppy passes. It’s like they’re one second behind every play, scrambling around like a bunch of chickens.
“Get your hands up!” I shoot a glare at one of the guys. “Be prepared for the ball.”
Or just catch it with your face, dumbass.
Patrick is the only other athlete on my team, and he’s a goalie, so his skillset is different. Plus, he’s too busy staring at the girls’ asses to care. I can’t expect much from this group. Meanwhile, Landon has Evan, and a girl from the soccer team.
Landon rotates to the front, and I’m pissed as hell that I’m not directly in front of him at the net.
“Watch the line,” I say. “He’s going to cross.”
“No one even knows what that means,” Rebecca mutters in front of me.
I blink at her. “We literally learned it two days ago.”
She hikes a shoulder.
I’m surrounded by idiots.
As I expected, Landon scores on us, the ball smacking the floor just inside the boundary. Nowhere near me.
My hands ball into fists. Landon chuckles and lifts his chin. “Having fun, Morgan?”
I roll my eyes, feigning nonchalance. “You’re predictable.”
“Yet I still scored.”
I roll my lips between my teeth and focus on my team. “Spread out. Stop bunching up under the ball.”
One clean pass turns into a set. The ball smacks against my wrist, sailing high over the net. It drops between two of Landon’s players before they even see it coming.
Tied game.
My chest heaves, adrenaline slicing through my veins. This is what I love. What fuels me. Competition. Control. Winning.
It’s my turn to serve. I toss the ball high, step forward, and hit it hard. It rockets over the net, and I hold my breath as it travels to the other side.
Evan pops it up, giving Landon a chance to get under it.
“He’s gonna spike it!” I shout to my front line.
But I know he heard me, so he won’t be spiking it. I lunge toward Patrick, not trusting him or either of the girls beside him to see what’s coming.
Landon sends the ball all the way to the middle of our court, too high for the front line to reach.
“Mine!” I jump, and for a split second, everything slows.
There’s a gap on the left side of their court.
I punch the ball, my heart hammering in my throat as I watch it soar.
One of Landon’s teammates slides to get under it, but his sneakers stop him short. He reaches for the ball, and it grazes his fingertips, sending the ball sideways before it bounces out-of-bounds.
Point.
The whistle blows, and I pump my fist in the air. “Yes!”
The gym erupts in cheers, from students watching on the sidelines and my teammates. Even Rebecca is smiling.
We walk off the court and switch with the next group. I lower myself onto the floor and scoot back against the wall.
Evan takes the spot beside me, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “You had to make me sweat today.”
I flash him a grin. “You’re welcome.”
Landon slumps down on the other side of me, cheeks flushed. “You realize this doesn’t count towards our bet, right?”
I tap my temple. “It counts up here.”
He huffs out a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you lost.”
“Wait until the game this weekend.” He leans in, his sweaty hair flopping over his forehead. “Shame that I’m gonna wipe that beautiful smile right off your face.”
I look away, but he doesn’t. He never does, and I hate the way my cheeks heat under his unwavering gaze.
Ignore him.
This is all part of his plan to get in my head. Flirt with me, throw me off my game.
But that’s where he’s wrong.
I won’t let anything get in the way of winning.
Certainly not a boy.
And definitely not Landon Fletcher.
“Hi, Dad.”
His tired eyes meet mine. “Hey, baby. How was practice?”
“Good.” I toss my backpack onto the floor and kick off my cleats. “We had a scrimmage and I scored five goals.”
He chuckles as he lifts the remote and mutes the TV. “That’s my girl.”
I glance at the balled-up tissues littering the coffee table, lying beside the bottle of Tylenol, and my stomach sinks. “How was work?”
“I left early.”
“Again?”
Dad rubs his temples in small circles. “I just can’t shake this headache. It’s making me tired.”
“Maybe it’s time to go to the doctor.” I lean on the arm of the chair, and touch the back of my hand to his forehead. “Headaches don’t usually last for days on end.”
“Ah, I’ll be fine. It’s just allergies.” He takes my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. “Tell me more about this scrimmage.”
I hesitate, heaving a sigh. “Dad...”
“I’m fine, baby. I promise.” He looks into my eyes, the ones that match my hazel color, and offers me a smile. “You don’t have to worry about your father. That’s my job.”
Losing my mother at eight-years-old instilled a fear in me that I still haven’t been able to shake.
Her car accident was sudden and unexpected, leaving us reeling.
My father is all I have in this world, and I need him to be okay.
He hates the way I worry about him, but I don’t know how to stop.
Maybe it’s codependent, but I’ve taken care of him since Mom died, and I always will.
Seeing me excel in lacrosse is one of the only things that puts a smile on his face, so I give up the fight and tell him about my scrimmage. He could’ve had a son if Mom was still around, so I’ve made it my mission in life to fill as many empty spaces in his heart as I can to keep him happy.
I can be enough for him.
“Come sit with me in the kitchen while I start dinner.” I turn off the TV and collect the used tissues into a pile. “And get these snot rags out of here.”
Dad groans as he pushes out of his chair, the old metal springs groaning with him.
I arch a brow. “Maybe everything hurts because of that old recliner. You could get a new one that’s better for your back.”
“The recliner stays.”
I shake my head, already expecting that response. “You’re such a creature of habit.”
“Don’t fix it if it’s not broken.” Dad follows me into the kitchen and lowers himself into a wooden chair at the table. “I love everything in this house because it holds a memory.”
“Then you won’t be turning my bedroom into an office when I go off to college?”
“Not a chance.” He points his index finger at me. “And no talking about college until next year. I’m not ready yet.”
I smile as I take out a package of chicken from the refrigerator. “I’m not going far; I told you this.”
“You’ll go as far as you need to if it’s the best school. I was looking at North Carolina and Boston the other night. Their lacrosse programs seem really competitive.”
I raise my eyebrows as I glance at him over my shoulder. “I thought we weren’t thinking about college until next year?”
He stifles a sly smile. “I was curious.”
“You might as well move with me wherever I go. You’re going to want to see me play.” I slice open the plastic and pull out a chicken breast. “Besides, who’s going to make sure you eat dinner every night?”
He chuckles. “I will definitely miss your home-cooked meals.”
Sadness pools in my stomach. I hate thinking about leaving him. I know the time will inevitably come; I can’t live with my father forever. But the thought of him all alone in his big house makes me want to stay close by.
“All right.” I straighten my shoulders and swallow down the emotion. “No more college talk. Let me tell you about how I kicked Landon’s ass in volleyball today.”