Page 72

My hands were shaking. That pissed me off too.

Micah spent most lunches on the tennis courts.

He ate quickly, then used whatever time remained to get extra work in before the afternoon heat became unbearable.

Sadie and I found him hitting with another boy from the team.

Micah moved fast, his footwork light.

I wasn’t sure how long they’d been playing, but the other guy looked exhausted.

People tended to see his face first.

The light blond hair. Soft brown eyes.

Features pretty enough that the list writers had apparently decided to start a war over them.

On the court, none of him looked soft.

He did look graceful, almost elegant—until he tossed the ball and served hard enough that the other boy barely moved before it passed him.

“Again,” Micah called.

His opponent bent over, hands braced on his knees. “Fuck you. That’s not a serve.”

A coach shouted something from another court.

Micah ignored him. “Again.”

Sadie leaned against the fence beside me. “He really is the prettiest one.”

Micah’s head snapped toward us.

He pointed his racket at her. “Don’t.”

Sadie didn’t blink. “Good ears.”

“How the fuck did you even hear about that?” he called.

“Because I have the internet,” she said. “I didn’t write it.”

“Don’t repeat it.”

I grinned.

Micah’s eyes shifted to me and narrowed. “You too.”

Then his attention went past my shoulder.

Two girls were crossing behind us, one wearing a drill-team jacket, the other carrying a cheer bag.

Both looked away too quickly.

Micah watched them disappear through the side doors. “The list didn’t start with cheer,” he said.

Sadie glanced at him. “Why?”

“The wording.” He bounced the ball once, thinking. “Half the cheer team calls Chief Declan,” Micah said. “Drill team mostly calls him Chief because that’s what the football guys call him.”