10. Allie
ALLIE
Age Seventeen
“Ramos drops back—he’s searching for a receiver—”
“Oh. My. Fuck,” Zander rasps beside me.
“Number seventeen is downfield and wide open, but can he—”
“Holy shit!” Everett yelps.
“Pass complete for twenty-eight yards! If I stand corrected, that’s a new state record by your lucky number seven, folks,” the announcer booms over the stadium speakers as the stands go pin-drop silent, everyone staring slack-jawed as a Pacific Shores receiver jogs through the end zone for their fifth touchdown of the night.
The entire team dog-piles atop Archer midfield, hollering and whooping at the fact that he just broke a passing yard record during the final game of his senior season.
I don’t often make his games, but my dance team had a rare weekend off from competition, so I made the drive to Pacific Shores after school today, arriving just in time for kickoff.
I’m nestled midway up the home section between Zander and Dahlia, with Everett sitting on her other side.
Willow and her parents sit behind us with August and Elena, Archer’s other aunt and uncle.
I notice Dahlia quietly wipe a tear in my periphery as we watch Archer make his way to the sidelines before his coach claps his back.
The Pacific Shores team calls a timeout, and the coach motions something at Archer before pointing toward the stands.
He nods as he slips his helmet off and sets it on the bench, then spins, jogging across the field in our direction.
He doesn’t know I was attending today, and it shows when he reaches the base of the bleachers, gaze scanning the crowd for his family, landing on his brother first who stands massively beside me.
Archer’s eyes then flick to mine, widening when he takes notice of me.
Everett’s signature whistle pierces the air, his family screams, and the crowd cheers, but Archer’s focus stays pinned on me.
He leaps over the concrete wall separating the seats from the asphalt track lining the football field and begins skipping up the bleachers while extending his arm and pointing directly at me.
Those sitting below begin to clear out of the way as he jumps over the benches and through the spectators, until suddenly, he’s right here—peering down at me with sapphire eyes, a trickle of moisture lining his dark brow, the scent of sweat mixed with something inherently him hazing the air between us.
“You came. You’re here,” he says, chest heaving.
“You’re a record-setter,” I respond, tilting my head up to look at him. He's only slightly taller than me now, standing on the bleacher below mine.
A smile spreads over his flushed cheeks—blazing, breathtaking. “You must be my good luck charm.”
And right here—under Friday night lights and a packed small-town football stadium, every eye on us—Archer takes my face between his hands and kisses me with a ferocity that could rattle the stars.
It’s a declaration. A promise.
Archer
Three Weeks Later
I check myself over in the mirror, straightening the lapels of my sport coat before smoothing down my hair one final time.
“You ready, kid?” Dad calls from downstairs.
“Yep!” I yell, darting out of the bathroom and to the front door.
My dad’s dressed more casually than I am in a pair of dark jeans and a navy-blue quarter-zip pullover, the tattoos on his hands peeking out from under the sleeves.
His dark eyes glisten when they flit toward the kitchen as the clicking of my mom’s heeled boots echoes off the hardwood floor. “Breathtaking as ever, Wildflower.”
Mom chuckles, fastening a small gold hoop in her ear and pressing a kiss on my dad's lips before glancing at me. “You look great, Bub.” She smiles, shoulder-length blond hair swaying with each step.
“I feel overdressed,” I murmur.
“Nah.” Dad nudges my shoulder as he opens the front door. “You look professional. Plus, you’ve got a dance to make it to tonight.”
“Hope so. If I don’t make it to Macie and Dom’s house by seven, Allie is going to be so upset.”
“I’m sure the dinner won’t last that long,” Mom assures me as we make our way to my parents’ car.
Four hours later, I’m breaking out in a cold sweat, leg shaking uncontrollably as I pull my phone from my pocket and glance down at the time. 7:32. Six missed calls from Allie.
I’m so fucked.
“Have y’all ever been to Texas?” James, the scout for TU, asks.
“Few times,” Mom answers, adding, “Archer hasn’t, though.”
“Well!” he bellows with a laugh. “We’ll have to get you out there, then, won’t we? Give you a full tour!”
Despite the nerves spiking in my gut, I force a smile. “That would be an honor.”
I shift uncomfortably, shooting my parents a help me look from across the table.
Texas University called about three days after I broke the state record, word spreading through the sports media world like wildfire. They offered to take my parents and me out to dinner to discuss the TU football program—the number one team in the country, and an ultimate dream of mine.
It’s an impassible opportunity, and one I couldn’t be more excited about being offered, but it’s fallen on the same night as Allie’s winter dance at her school, which I promised I’d be there for.
I’d have made the drive to Los Angeles regardless, but I thought the plan would go off without a hitch when I was invited to the dinner in L.A.
too—so much so, that I’d planned to surprise Allie with the news when I picked her up.
We haven’t had sex again since our first time three months ago, and I suppose I wouldn’t call what we are dating. I don’t know if a label exists for our relationship, but I know I don’t want anyone else, and she doesn’t either.
I kissed her at my game weeks ago in front of my entire school—my entire town.
We talk every night on the phone, and when she mentioned never having attended a school dance, since she’s always had trouble making friends in Los Angeles, I swore I’d go as her date so she could experience it.
As my parents continue to chat with the scout, doing their best to close out our conversation and end this dinner, he prattles on, and I realize my chances of making it on time are rapidly dwindling.
I feel like such an asshole.
I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to meet with TU—I have the grades to get accepted, and if this meeting could open a spot on their team, even as a redshirt, I had to take it.
I’d been hopeful to play for a Division I program and had my eye on a few schools in the Southern California area, but playing for TU is a pipe dream. I’m a great football player, but I’m not some prodigal-born talent who could show up and break records without lifting a finger.
I was overlooked when I played Pop Warner as a kid.
I faded into the background in middle school when my coach had me on defense, playing safety.
There was always someone older, taller, faster, a better leader.
What I had that others didn’t, though, was determination.
I wanted to play quarterback, so I worked harder.
I showed up early, stayed late, and begged my parents to hire a private trainer.
I watched films and followed the best quarterbacks in the professional league—did my best to mimic the way they lived and played.
After my growth spurt in eighth grade, I was finally taken seriously and given the opportunity to try out for the quarterback position in high school—and I led our team to a championship win.
It feels as if all that work is now being recognized.
Though, the thought of bailing on Allie’s dance makes me sick, and no amount of excitement over this dinner is comparable to the fear of breaking her heart.
A buzz erupts across the table, and I glance over to find my mom’s face brightening with the glow from her phone. Her eyes narrow, and she slides her thumb across the screen before bringing it to her ear. “Hello—Whoa, Lucille. Slow down. Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?”
She chews her lip, nodding. The performance is flawless, honestly.
Her gaze becomes withdrawn and unfocused as she listens to whomever is on the other side of the line, but I’d be willing to bet it’s not Lou.
My sister is somewhere in Spain right now with her girlfriend for a charity surf competition, and if my mental math is correct, it’s the middle of the night there.
James pipes down, hands resting on his belly as he watches my mother’s interaction with rapt attention. She nods rapidly before hanging up and sliding her phone back into her purse.
“Everything all right?” Dad asks.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She turns to the scout. “Our daughter got into a small car accident.” She throws her hands up. “She’s totally unharmed! But we need to go pick her up. I apologize for abruptly ending dinner, we were having a wonderful time.”
“I completely understand.” He nods rapidly, eyes wide. Totally buying it. “You best go take care of her.”
We all stand from our seats, rushing our goodbyes while he promises we’ll be hearing from him soon before my parents usher me out of the restaurant and into the harsh lights of downtown Los Angeles.
“Who called?” I ask as we climb into the car.
“Elena,” my mom responds. “We have a code word for when we need to fake an emergency call to get out of a situation.”
“Of course you do,” my dad murmurs as he backs out of the parking lot. “Good looking out, Wildflower.”
I check my phone again, and it’s nearly eight o’clock now, so the odds of making it to Allie’s dance are slim to none, but I ask my parents to drive us over to the Evans’ anyway. I call Allie twice on the way, and it goes straight to voicemail both times.
As we pull up to their bungalow-style home, the curtains are drawn across both front windows on either side of the door. A warm glow illuminates from the inside, but when I glance to Allie’s window on the second level, it’s entirely dark.