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“So, star athletes from across the country are on the scout team, same as us. And guess what? They were QBs at their high schools, too.”
I laugh it off. “Yeah, but they aren’t me.”
“And who are you again?”
I’m Connor fucking Morgan.
Son of Junior Morgan.
Grandson of?—
“You’re Connor fucking Morgan, right?” he says, mocking my thoughts. “Son of Junior Morgan? Grandson of Cary Pierce?” He stands tall, smirking. “That’s what you’re thinking, right?”
“Okay, we’ve known each other for way too long.”
“Or you’re just very predictable.” He throws the ball. “Daddy’s name will only get you so far.”
I catch, chuckling as I throw it back. “I could say the same to you, man.”
“Hey, at least Ben and I have a gimmick. You…” He checks me up and down. “You have no gimmick.”
“Well, keep your eyes peeled, Alex,” I say. “This year, you’ll see something new.”
“Big words.” He throws the ball. “For such a tiny man.”
The ball arches over my head and into the hands of his brother, Ben. I swivel around, glancing upward to look him in the eye. Same towering height. Same dark brown hair. Same cocky Kirby smirk. Identical in nearly every physical way. Eighteen years I’ve known these guys and I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart if it weren’t for the way they color-code themselves. Alex wears red. Ben wears blue.
And Dana wears little yellow sundresses now, apparently.
I spot her through the windows across the lawn, smiling and chatting with my mother at the kitchen counter.
Ben steps forward into my eyeline. “Oh, we shitting on Connor now?” he asks with a grin. “I wanna play.”
“No, we’re not,” I say.
“Heartbreaker here thinks he’s shoo-in for scout QB,” Alex says.
Ben laughs. “Of course he does. Didn’t you hear? Cary Pierce is his grandpappy.”
Alex gasps. “You don’t say?”
“Don’t call me Heartbreaker,” I say, extending my hands up as Ben throws the ball over my head toward Alex.
“Aw, look at that,” Alex says as he catches it. “Wittle Mowgan gettin’ weal mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I say. “And I’m not short. You guys are just freakishly tall.”
Alex throws the ball. Again it sales over my head into Ben’s hands. “Are we?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so,” Ben says.
Ben throws the ball. This time, I time my jump, leaping as high as I can to intercept it mid-air. I land on the grass, planting my feet and standing tall with the ball.
“Yes,” I say. “You are.”
They swoon with fake awe and amusement as another car rolls to a stop just behind the Kirby’s sedan on the street, this one an SUV. Another family of familiar faces steps out, one face in particular a copy and paste of Rose Kirby’s with darker lipstick.
