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Emerson’s eyes briefly flit in his direction, but he continues talking to me. “I have every right to wear this jersey.” He pauses, sighing lightly. “Come on, Morgan. Isn’t it about time we bury this? We’re on the same team here.”
He extends his hand to me.
It’s a rational idea. Hell, he even sounds sincere.
But this isn’t about me.
“Stay away from Dana,” I say through the edge of my teeth.
Emerson smirks, his hand dropping to his side. “Why? Does she go here, too?”
Alex steps forward again, flanked by Ben.
With a chuckle, Emerson hops back, grabbing his helmet from his locker before closing the door. “See you on the field, boys.”
The three of us stand still as he leaves, none of us relaxing a muscle until his shadow disappears up the ramp toward the field.
Emerson Floyd? Here?
Alex punches his locker. “Bullshit.”
“It’ll be all right,” Ben says, always the calmer of the twins. “It’s a big team. We might never have to even talk to him again.”
I nod, though I don’t believe a word of it. A quarterback is a leader for all players — offense and defense. If he sticks around, I’ll have to bury it, just like Emerson suggested. High school grudges have no place on the field.
Forget, but I won’t forgive anyone who hurts Dana the way he did.
I finish getting dressed. “Let’s go,” I say.
We silently grab our helmets, our blank expressions signaling a united front against a common enemy.
“Conny!”
I pause my stride on the middle of the ramp as Alex and Ben continue forward onto the field.
There’s only one woman in this world who calls me Conny.
With an exhale, I turn to face her. “Trisha Wells,” I say. “Sports Illuminatedmagazine.”
The woman grins, her lips as red as the dye in her hair, a touch of gray in the roots. “I have been looking everywhere for you!”
“Did you try the locker room?” I ask, gesturing to my uniform.
An annoyed grunt. “They won’t let me in there after... well...” She smiles coyly before moving on. “How is my Halftime Heartbreaker?”
I roll my eyes.
“Now, now.” She points a stiff, painted fingernail in my direction as she steps forward, her forehead in line with my nose. I remember a time when she towered over me, bold and intimidating, her phone a permanent fixture in her palm, ready to catch any clip or soundbite that may lead to a story. Now, I see how small she is. Petite is the word. Doesn’t make her any less powerful and influential, though. “We came up with that headline together, you and I.”
“Yes, we did,” I say with a nod. “And my friends have never let me live it down.”
“They’re just jealous! You’re the only high school athlete I’ve ever featured. You know that, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Did you not appreciate it? You’re not... ungrateful, are you, Conny?”
“I’m very grateful, Ms. Wells.”
