[Grayson Foster's POV]

Madison mumbled in her sleep last night. 

Just two, tiny, slurred words.

But it was enough to keep me awake until the sun came up.

The white lines of the football field are stark against the green turf, and they box me into a zone where I'm comfortable, where I have full control— unlike at home. Empty bleachers surround the field, and tall trees create a dome that compress me into my own world.

Practicing before school keeps me focused, distracts me when life get's annoying.

The bags beneath my eyes feel swollen against the cool morning wind.

Stop thinking. Try to focus.

The football is firm in my grip as I press it into the turf, my cleats grinding into the fake grass. When the busses begin to arrive in the parking lot, I'm already halfway across the field, football tucked beneath my arm. From one end zone to the other. Over and over.

Later today, this field of solace will be full of competition during this season's tryouts. I don't need to practice like this every morning, but I did need the peace.

I run the length of the field again.

Over and over.

Keep the thoughts out.

But there she is, finding her way through even the darkest cracks of my mind.

My fucking mind that I haven't been in control of since finding her on the side of the road, and especially after what she mumbled last night. The words that bubbled from her lips in the pitch dark of our room.

Our room. It's my room. Since when did I allow it to become hers too?

My run slows to a halt.

When it becomes all too much, I drop the ball and stand in the middle of the field. My head falls back and the cool breeze takes my hair with it. The thoughts I've been trying so hard to avoid pour in without permission.

Violet's black eye and how she shoved me away when I tried to help her.

The secret with Madison and how no secret lasts forever...

Justin's growing affection towards her.

My stepmom, who cried last week when she found out about the party Violet and I threw ages ago, and how a handful of family heirlooms have been missing since. Violet sank low that day and passed all the blame onto me.

And lastly, Amelia, whose relentless texting and calling has been driving me up a wall. I can only keep ignoring her for so long before she blows a fuse. 

Snatching the ball off the ground, I jog to my bag on the sidelines. There's one thought I refuse to let bother me, and that's what Madison said in her sleep. 

I'm already not in a good mindset. 

I sigh and swing my bag over my shoulder.

Deep down, there's a part of me that wants to go back to just not giving a shit. 

******

Before I know it, the school day is over and a football is back in my hands.

The field is colored with bodies of white and gold, our school's colors. Small scrimmages— practice games—  are happening all along the turf. Those who aren't taking part in the scrimmage are running drills, sprinting from sideline to sideline, or are wearing the full weight of gear and tackling padded dummies. 

The oval ball spirals off my fingertips a bit too hard and drills towards Justin, who catches it deep within his chest. He gives me a sideways look and I apologize.

I'm just not myself today.

Justin passes to Chris, and Chris back to me. Our scrimmages have been over for awhile now, Coach clearing us to just pass the ball for the remainder of tryouts. The varsity team rarely ever has a trade of players because the best are already on the team.

The metal stands are speckled with motion. 

Tryouts are nothing compared to an actual game, though.

The coaches watch, taking notes and rotating people through each category of practice.

My gaze falls beyond the coaches and everything about the football field blurs away. It's the bleachers that I focus on, the crowd that I search.

When Chris throws the ball, I'm not ready and it nearly slips through my fingers. 

The last thing I need is to be slacking during tryouts— not that my position is in any jeopardy, but it still doesn't look good. 

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I curse myself for not leaving it on the sidelines. It doesn't buzz once, but twice. One of the coaches beckons for a couple of guys to join our passing drill, and the ball rotates quickly between us.

When a third buzz cracks my tolerance in half, I finally check my phone.

It's a picture, sent to me by Amelia. 

A last-ditch effort to get my attention.

But it's not one photo, it's two. Three.

She sends them in a succession, and with each one, I unravel under the eyes of everyone in the stands.

The first one is Madison, who is in nothing but her undergarments as I carry her to my bedroom and away from the party. 

My grip tightens around the phone.

The second one is a screenshot that Amelia took of the accidental FaceTime call, where Madison is tangled within my legs, my body, my neck.

The wind is not enough to cool me down.

The third and final one brings me back to the curbside, where Madison's face is pressed to my chest and I hold her entirely. The photo was taken from behind a pair of bushes, red roses blurring the frame of the picture.

I can't think straight. Can't even begin to process what kind of blackmail Amelia is conjuring in her pot of witchcraft. If these photos are shown to the wrong people, the amount of friendships that are at risk of cracking open—

A football slams into my chest, knocking my phone down and effectively boiling my anger past it's breaking point. 

There's a mumbled apology and a hand that is already picking up my phone before I can.

When I grab it from him, he doesn't let go of it.

It takes everything in me not to take my anger out on this random guy. "Now's really not the time, man." 

He let's go of the phone.

"Huh." He snickers. "So that's where she went when she ran off from the party."

There's a moment of stillness before I let myself look, actually look, at the guy, piercings and all. Shaggy hair, low eyes and a lazy smirk. Lips that look too red for his face, that touch things they aren't supposed to. 

For the first time today, there is only one thing on my mind.

I step towards the guy from the video, everything inside me wanting to hit him, shove him, hurt him. But that would be the dumbest thing I could do under the eyes of everyone at school and the coaches.

Unsportsmanlike conduct was intolerable. 

"You should find a different group to practice with." My eyes are daggers, and it feels wrong to resist the violent urge beneath my knuckles.

Quintin challenges. "Yeah, but you see, coach told me to practice here."

"And I'm telling you you're not welcome."

Chris and Justin jog over, forming a small circle. 

His brow furrows. "Did I do something to bother you? Was it the phone? I didn't mean to be snoopy, but I just recognized the girl—" He ponders for a second. "—I forgot her name, but... "

My hands slam into his chest, not a push, but a shove. A threat.

He stumbles back, but like anyone practiced in football, his footing is firm.

My eyes falter past him, past the coaches that aren't looking this way, and to the front row of the bleachers. Madison sits there, an open book in her lap and her eyes on me.

Or are they on Justin?

"Okay, okay." Quintin scoffs. "I see I hit a soft spot. Don't know why there's so much fuss over a girl like her, but if it means anything, I was going to ask what her name was so I could apologize—"

But my second shove is harder and this time falls to the turf.

It could've escalated further — should have, but Justin pulls me back.

His eyes snap to the coaches who haven't yet noticed the commotion.

But the bleachers are full of watchful eyes. And one set of them is directly on me.

She shakes her head, beckoning me to stop.

"Apologize?" I look down on Quintin. "Keep your pathetic apology to yourself."

Quintin rests on his elbows, looking up at me with a hint of bewilderment, but his lazy expression comes back with a twist of his lips. I almost come down to the ground with him, but I'm not going to fight him. Not here, not like this.

Not over a girl who I'm supposed to hate.

He drops the grin and gets to his feet, wipes his shorts off. "I deserved that. I can be a dick sometimes." 

I grab the ball and start towards another spot on the field. "Yeah, I can be a dick too, but I'm not going to come onto a girl that doesn't want it." 

He scoffs. "You're telling me she didn't want it?"

The tacky leather wilts under my tightening grip and with one smooth motion, I'm turning on my heel and hurling the ball.

It's not a pass, it's a bullet.

And it slams into his chest so hard that he erupts into a coughing fit. I'm debating on following the ball, my legs acting on their own, when a firm palm grips my shoulder.

It's far too big to be Justin's this time.

"Stop, Grayson." Coach's voice is tight, and it mimics the exact words that Madison cried in her sleep last night.

[Madison Fren POV]

The football knocks the breath out of Quintin, and he's still coughing when a coach leads Grayson towards the side of the field. His eyes tug on mine before he's pulled out of view. 

"If that guy ever comes near you again, I don't want to think about what I might do."

The bleachers erupt behind me with hungry gossip, all of the voices blurring into one.

"What was that all about? Maybe Quintin is besting Grayson at his own game, I heard rumors that Quintin was the best player at his old school. Nah, that couldn't be it, Grayson's too good. Maybe it was over a girl— Amelia, probably?"

I've been hearing whispers all day, ghosts that watch me behind the nooks of the hallway, follow me like buzzing bees. Everyone recognized me to be the girl in the video. Thankfully, I haven't been approached yet and asked about what really happened.

Instead, people enjoy making up their own stories. 

"What was up with that?" Violet questions.

I'm not sure what to say. "Grayson's never been good at controlling his anger?"

"No, I mean... him looking at you." Her eyes drill into me. "As if..."

My breathing hitches, but a dark figure stands between us and the sun. 

It's Austin. "Violet, we need to talk." 

Violet's mind has never been able to stay in one place for too long, and I can tell that she's already waved off her question as she focuses on Austin. 

Her dewy makeup shines with droplets of sweat. You'd never know there was a bruise beneath her beige foundation.

"Not happening." She puckers her lips. "Bye."

"Violet, I'm serious."

Austin leans down to grab her arm, and I'm about to stand up when a hand pulls him backward. A wet towel drapes over Chris's shoulders as he nudges his chin towards the top of the bleachers. "You should go."

Austin shoves off his grip, but he doesn't rebuttal with Chris.

Grayson or Justin must've told him about what happened last night. 

Austin sighs, shakes his head and saunters back up the bleachers. Instead of sitting in his previous seat with his friends, he heads over to a girl whose thin legs are laid out horizontally on the long metal. She greets him with a flirtatious smile.

It wasn't Austin that hit Violet last night. It was her.

"He's a real jackass." Chris scoffs.

"All men are." Violet's voice is low, blue eyes full of sadness. Melancholy never really fit her features quite right.

A spike of pain flashes on Chris's face and it's so subtle, I almost think he's just wincing at the brightness of the sun.

But I know Chris, not too well... but well enough to know how he feels about Violet.

"Can you believe that when I went over to Austin's house," her glare travels up the bleachers. "She had climbed in through his window without knowing I was there. And then had the audacity to go all crazy chick on me!?I'm the girlfriend, or... was. It was my job to punch the slut."

She crosses her arms, her sassy humor coming out even in the hardest of times. "At least, that's how it's done in the movies."

I wrap an arm around her and sway her from side to side. "You're better off without him, Vi. You're an absolute catch and him cheating on you was the biggest mistake of his life. Do you know how many guys would kill to be with you?"

My eyes snap to Chris and I immediately feel bad for saying that.

I give Violet a genuine smile, but I know her blue eyes won't be electric for a long time.

******

Tryouts don't last much longer, the sunset swallowing the football field whole. The turf becomes painted with orange and pink as the sun lowers.

The field is mostly cleared out by now, and the bleachers are finally whisper-free.

"Well, the buses are long gone, so let's find..." I pause. "Let's find Grayson and get a ride home."

My words almost didn't want to come out. Would bringing up Grayson reignite her earlier curiosity? Am I lying to Violet by keeping the topic away? After all, nothing was going on between Grayson and I... nothing intentional. 

"Yeah, I think it's going to rain, you know. My breasts can tell. They get all sensitive when it's about to rain, like tingly almost." She leans her head back, eyes closed and embraces the humidity that beings to transpire. 

"Or, hear me out... it's almost that time of the month." I quirk a brow.

She pauses. Counts the dates in her mind. "Oh. Yeah."

We erupt in giggles before picking up our books and standing. When I look towards the field, it's easy to spot Grayson because he's one of the only few people left on the field, but when I do, my heart sinks.

He's being led off the field and into the boy's locker room.

By Amelia.

"Actually, I only have a few questions left on this homework," Violet sits back down. "Get Grayson, and I'll be here."

Her book flops back open and I blink down at her.

A droplet of rain hits the tip of my nose and I don't even bother asking if she'd rather walk home.

When I make it to the tall door of the locker room, I'm frozen. My palm rests on the handle. Going into the boy's locker room is obviously against the rules, but even though no one is around to see, it still feels wrong.

What will I see when I open the door? I shift on my feet. 

What will I hear?

I don't want to interrupt anything... I don't want there to be anything to interrupt. 

The hinges are quiet as I push open the door.

There are two rows of lockers on both sides of the entrance forming a small pathway that leads you deeper into the room. Once I make it to the end, a large room opens up and is divided by rows of lockers. Abandoned jerseys hang on open locker doors and dirty towels sleep in hampers.

I see the name Rae on the back of a jersey. Justin's locker.

Somewhere behind one of the rows, I can hear voices. The words echo loudly through the emptiness and ricochet off the grey metals.

"So, you'll make it official then?" Amelia's voice is harsh, but layered in what sounds like hopefulness. "Grayson?"

There's a moment of silence. "Yeah."

"Good. This will be my chance to show you." Amelia says, and I can hear the fabric of Grayson's jersey being tugged.

"I'm just surprised you thought something was going on between me and her." His voice is full of grit. "You know she's my step-sisters friend."

"I guess I just misunderstood." There's not an ounce of softness in her voice. 

In the reflection of a little square mirror, I can see the curves of Amelia as she leans into the nape of Grayson's neck. 

"I'm just glad to be able to call you my boyfriend again."

******