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Eyes on the spot. Not the uprights. The uprights lie. The spot tells the truth.

Snap. Laces out. Marcus’s hold looked clean.

Heart slow. Shoulders loose. Same swing as warm-ups. Same swing as practice. Same swing as every rep since I was twelve.

Thock.

The sweet sound was all I needed to know it was good. My teammates cheered, the crowd went wild. And I thought, like a dumbass, it was a good sign. My fucked-up routine in the locker room hadn’t cursed us.

An hour and a half later, when we were behind by two with only three seconds left, I was up again. This time, it was clutch. Either I got the field goal, or we lost the season opener against East fucking Mercier.

I wouldn’t let that happen. Besides, it was an easy distance this time. Thirty-five yards.

I found my spot. Took three steps back and two left⁠—

For some reason, for some fucking unknown, ridiculous fucking reason, my eyes flicked up to the Jumbotron in time to see my father’s steely gaze. His friendly arm wrapped around Arden. The two of them standing side by side in one of the luxury boxes.

I immediately refocused on my job. Angled my hips and took a slow breath.

Snap. Laces out, Marcus’s hold was clean, and⁠—

Thunk.

My foot connected with the ball, but I knew immediately it was all wrong.

I couldn’t help it. My eyes flicked to the big screen again. To the perfect view of my father’s face, of his smug smile dropping in slow motion as the ball didn’t even think about the uprights—was in a different fucking country from the uprights. And it landed short of the end zone anyway, way over off East Mercier’s sideline.

Shanked.

The crowd gasped

Marcus looked at me with wide eyes. Eyes that so clearly asked, What the fuck?

“I,” I said helplessly. “The Jumbotron.”

His forehead crinkled with even more confusion. “The what?”

“The…” Nothing. I’d let my father get in my head. I had no business even looking at the fucking Jumbotron during a game. I had no one to blame but myself.

The disappointed crowd, the shocked announcers, and the perky fucking marching band all vied for their turn at abusing my ears.

Marcus shook his head as he trudged off the field. “Thirty-five yards. You can hit that in your sleep.”

He didn’t wait for a response, only shook his head as he loped back to the bench.

Marcus was right. Thirty-five yards was a distance I was supposed to own. Clean snap, clean hold, clean swing. Stay in the zone, and let the muscle memory do what it already knew how to do.

I’d nailed that kick a thousand times over the years.

But today, when the game had been on the line, I’d failed.

6

VAUGHN

My goal was to finish cleaning this gummed-up carburetor fast so I could do some studying before picking up Chinese for Grace and Tabitha. It had taken me all day to get this fucking thing right, and it didn’t help that Dalton kept interrupting me.

It also didn’t help that I kept thinking about Bett fucking McNeely.