Prologue

​Jack

 

“This is why we didn’t play football, Jack,” Ty muttered, then barked at the Hickory Bend Wolves, “Move a little slower, pussies.”

     One player stumbled, heaving breaths making him unsteady. The others, retrieving their equipment with limp arms and shuffling feet, glared at the group of us waiting to get our soccer camp started.

     “Dude,” Blaine, last year’s goalkeeper, warned. Of course, my twin brother, a master at first impressions, didn’t heed it.

     “What? The humidity is already thick like steam. They’re supposed to be off the field by ten.”

     Ty had a point. July in the South was no joke. I doubted even a stiff breeze could sway the sluggish air.

     The move to Alabama from San Francisco had been more than a culture shock. Sure, we had lots of green there. Nature wove in seamlessly with the urban landscapes and an overall chill that kept it peaceful enough. This, though, this level of quiet was different. Wind rustled in trees that felt old, not purposeful. Not so much lazy summer days as tired.

     Everything here was just—fucking slow.

     “About time, dirt diggers,” Ty huffed when Coach Hayes motioned us onto the field for warm-ups. The soccer pitch would be nice once the updates were complete, but unfortunately, we’d be sharing the field with the fuckball players until then.

     “Watch it, dickweed. This ain’t your turf.” The football player who spoke gestured behind him with a jerk of his head. “And that ain’t your field. You’ll take our sloppy seconds and be happy about it.”

Most in our group of varsity soccer hopefuls shuffled away a step, ready to back down for these jocks. Granted, most of them weren’t stocky like the football team getting their first taste of Ty’s charms. Us, well, Dad had made sure we were trained in self-defense, but did I want to get in a fight on our first day of soccer camp and not even make it to tryouts?

     Did I want to give in to the unease slipping down my neck?

     “Ty,” I said, searching for exits. In this setting, they were all around, but—habit.

     He glanced at me before pressing his lips into a thin line and letting out a long exhale, surrendering, for me. I didn’t like football players—for reasons he was well aware of—and the less time I spent around them, the better.

     Had it ended there, all would’ve been fine. We’d practice, go home, rinse and repeat until our field was ready, but no. Fuck no. Some people just didn’t know when to quit. Normally, that was my hotheaded brother. This time, it was some dumbass jock.

     The same guy who’d been ready to get in Ty’s face patted his shoulder and smirked. “That’s right, puddin’ cup. Back off like a good girl.”

     Ty smacked his hand away and bared his teeth.

     Sweat chilled on my tense spine despite the rising temperatures.

     Not today. Not now. Please.

     Mr. Football stepped toward Ty, shoving him at the same time. He widened his eyes when Ty barely budged. Contradicting what I’d expected to be limited intelligence between his ears, hesitation floated across the dumbass’s expression.

     “Whoa. Whoa.” A guy barreled into the middle of us, pushing several football players back and effectively distracting me out of the beginnings of a spiral. “Practice is over, guys. Get off the field.”

     Winters—so said the name printed in block letters on the back of his practice jersey—flicked his sweat-soaked blond hair out of ice-blue eyes he turned on us, and—holy fuck. My jaw dropped, all self-control lost. I wasn’t prepared for the contrast of that dark honey tan of his or how it warmed me from the inside out. Like a punch to the chest, it spun me around, literally, and I walked away, shaking my head and muttering, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

     Words were said behind me. To me or more jabs between the two teams, I didn’t know or care, but I couldn’t be there for it. I wouldn’t let myself be there for it.

     “Keep your head down. That’s all you have to do, Jack. Just get through senior year,” I scolded myself with every step I took.

     This new school was a little smaller than our old one, but they had the AP classes and extracurriculars to help with getting into Harvard, Dad’s alma mater. That was the goal. The only goal. Getting wrapped up in some dumbfuck country boy and losing focus was the opposite of the goal.

     Ten months, Jack.

     Hold it in and keep everyone out for ten months.