All for the Game

Spencer Collins, driving south down East Pages Highway, watched his speedometer. Britney knew why. No more than five miles above the limit. Not at this hour.

“Make a wish,” Britney said through a lipstick smile, her shoulders back like riding shotgun was her place in life.

It was, at least with everyone at her high school. Well, shoot, everyone except Spencer. But that was on him, always growling at anyone who looked at him, even head cheerleaders.

Especially head cheerleaders.

“Eleven-eleven,” she continued, pointing to the car clock. “It’s good luck.”

His eyes darted to her and then returned to the dark road. He half laughed, then cut it short.

“No such thing.”

“Sure there is.” She punched him in the shoulder.

“Brit.” He looked at the sleeve of his hoodie where she’d touched him. “Don’t. I only agreed to let you ride with me because you showed up at my house.”

She ignored his tone and checked her makeup in the visor mirror. She’d opted for the smoky palette tonight, more dramatic against her light skin, highlighting her hazel eyes and the smattering of freckles across her nose. “FYI, I showed up to take your sister.”

“To an upperclassmen party? She’s fourteen.”

“Still. If Leah was invited—”

“She wasn’t.”

Ugh. So uptight. It was no wonder he didn’t have a girlfriend. She could’ve sworn Tammy told her Spencer’s sister, Leah, was invited. And since when did Spencer get invited? She reached for the radio dial and turned it on. A man’s voice, scratchy through the old speakers, leapt into the car with his deep southern drawl: “—​rigorous running and passing game of this squad. Which brings me to—​and no surprise, because who isn’t talking about eleventh-​grade running back Finn Geringer, new to East Pages High just this summer”—​Brit smiled, hearing Finn’s name—“and I’ll tell y’all, I’ll tell y’all that he does not have the history, does not have the two years’ backbone of practice, does not have—”

Spencer turned the dial down.

Brit shifted in her seat and flipped the volume back up. “—​first transfer in eleven years to be brought on as a starter to the varsity squad of EastPay, which begs the question of recruitment, but coaches insist on a high moral code of—”

His palm extending like he was stiff-​arming the announcer, Spencer slammed the radio off. Brit jumped, but then turned to him, narrowing her eyes. So dramatic. She could match it, and she did, staring at him with unblinking eyes, turning away slow and exaggerated until she again faced the windshield.

Strung from one side of the highway to the other, a huge banner flapped from the warm Texas wind. It read “FIGHT ON, EAST PAGES HIGH!” with a picture of a red football helmet on each side, framing the letters. She and the other cheerleaders had put up all the signs just last week. Already the town was filled with the energy that came at the start of every football season. Electric. Proud. After all, football kept the businesses alive in this small town. Pastor Mike would say it was the good Lord. But Brit would bet her pom-poms he’d miss a Sunday morning before he’d miss a Friday night.

“So whatdya think of the new guy?” Brit said, following the sign with her eyes as they drove under it. “Finn Geringer.”

“You mean your cousin?”

Well, dang. She chewed on her lip. Guess everybody knew by now. She’d only admitted it to a couple cheerleaders. She fidgeted for her lipstick in her pockets. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Is it? Finn Geringer hands us our only loss last season, and our head cheerleader is related to him?”

“So? It’s not like I was trying to keep it secret.”

“Sure you were. You’d be dumb not to.”

She hated that he was right. “Anyway, he plays for us now, so who cares?”

“You do. People would’ve eventually dug it up—​you being cousins. But lucky you. The enemy transferred to our team. Britney Wallace still gets to be queen.”

She threw her head against the headrest, annoyed he hadn’t answered about Finn. She flipped up the visor like she wanted a better view of the stars, only she never looked. She flipped it down again. Up, down. Up, down.

“Brit.”

She stopped midflip. Lolled her head to the side window and tried to sound casual. “You been practicing with him all summer.” She pressed her forehead against the glass. “He got what it takes?”

She immediately felt him step harder on the gas pedal, but she wasn’t sure if it was to drown her out or because they were already late to the party.

“You don’t scare me,” Britney continued, absently drawing on the glass with her finger. She’d tutored Spencer in math back in ninth grade. Neither of them would admit that now, but they would’ve even called themselves friends. That is, until the day she noticed a pattern in the school’s football stats—​how EastPay’s scores were higher against teams with better records. She’d confided in him—​told him how the magic of Dante’s Ravine was helping them win—​but he said there was no such thing. Then he went and blabbed it. Thank God no one found out it was her idea. She saw the backlash he got. He shut up real quick, but that’s also when he became ugly—​acting mean and moody with everyone. But he never snitched, and secretly, she loved him for that. “The other kids at school might be scared. But I’ve seen the way you look at your little sister. Like you’re a human. Like you look after the ones who—”

“Do you want a ride or not?”

“I’m in the car with you, ain’t I?” A semi drove by in the other direction, shaking Spencer’s 1998 Chevy Blazer. Everyone in this part of Texas had a light accent, but Brit made sure hers was thick, like she’d swum in it. “Horror movies don’t freak me out. I seen ’em all.”

“This isn’t a movie.”

She rolled her eyes back toward her blond curls. “Exactly. It’s a party, Spence. Don’t act like we’re heading to war. It’s beer and music and—”

“At Dante’s Ravine.”

“Not scared, are you? It’s been years.”

“Doesn’t change what happened there.”

His words unnerved her, but she shook it off. “It’s a river. We’re hanging out with friends on the river. Lighten up.”

She played with the #39 key chain hanging from his rearview mirror. Behind her, the two Spartan helmets in the back seat knocked against each other and rolled around. Not football helmets. Spartan armor. The kind warriors wore with nose plates cascading down from the forehead and cheek plates that wrapped forward. “Invitation helmets,” they were called. Tickets into the preseason party. They were just the cheap plastic versions, spray-​painted brass, but they still felt powerful to Brit. They were numbered, and everyone knew that not just anyone was asked to these parties. Definitely not students like Spencer, who kept himself outside the team’s social circle.

“Hey, how in the name of Texas did you get invited, anyway? When you’re not on the football field, you just brood around school glarin’ at people like they run over your cat and spit in your cornflakes.”

Spencer didn’t reply.

They passed a speed limit sign. Above it, a marquee flashed the words “FIRST GAME FRIDAY! EAST PAGES HIGH FOOTBALL. BEAT THE PIONEERS!”

“Look at you,” Britney scoffed, pulling out her lipstick tube and applying it. “Why’nt you just stay home? Not gonna be enough alcohol tonight to make up for your buzzkill.”

Spencer swerved into the shoulder, jarring Brit’s lipstick across her cheek. He skidded to a stop, and the wheels spun under them, a cloud of dust billowing behind the back window. Britney’s arms flew forward and slammed against the dashboard, the lipstick flying out of her hand.

“Jesus, Spencer!”

He threw the Blazer into park and looked at her. She kept her chin high, pretending that she hadn’t just taken the Lord’s name in vain, that she didn’t have a red painted line that now went from her lips to her ear. He gripped her by the forearm, but she noticed it wasn’t rough. “You listen close, Britney, because I’m saying this once, you got it?” He paused, and she saw again that glimmer of human. He didn’t let go of his hold on her, but he opened his mouth and then shook his head and breathed through his nose, like he was struggling to find words or debating what to say.

She waited, letting him hold her by the forearm, instead focusing on how her beige-pink skin contrasted with his, those hours of practicing football in the Texas sun toasting his arms to a golden brown. Bronzed skin. Hair the color of sand. He was an earth tones palette. She had one at home called Vintage Garden. Eucalyptus. Moss. Caramel. She stifled a grin, envisioning his broody glare softened with eyeshadow.

He finally spoke, but it was quiet, like the outside might hear. “Why’d you say Leah was invited?”

“Your sister? Heck if I know. Tammy just said—”

“Leah’s boyfriend plays football. Eli. Not Leah. She’s not in band. Not a cheerleader. Why the hell would you think that?”

She licked her lips. She hadn’t thought about that. “Whatever, I was wrong.”

“You think I want to be here? It’s a party for football players.”

“Yeah?”

“Players, Brit.” That human look was gone, replaced by steel. “I’m on the bench, remember?”

She ignored his grip, looked into the mirror above her, and with her free hand, rubbed to blend the lipstick line, a dark rouge but only on one side, high on her cheek like a bruise. “Then play better.”

Spencer shoved her arm away and ripped his car into drive again, peeling out onto the highway, his #39 key chain swinging back and forth.

She continued, “Maybe you could do some suicides, you know, running back and forth on the field touching the ground, like each time you go farther—”

“I know what suicides are.”

“Well, your running game don’t. Maybe if you showed up on a Sunday, did some bleachers, built up your quads. My mom has one of those thigh machines you can borrow.” She hiccupped and held in her giggle.

He inhaled deeply, blew it out slowly. “You about done?”

She slapped her hand on the dash and laughed. “Just stop already! You walking around bitter like you play with a bunch a Plano princesses, but this is EastPay High football. You wanna play, then you gotta perform, so why don’t you stop talkin’ crap the way other towns do about us, like we can’t possibly be just good at football. No, if we’re winning, there’s gotta be more, gotta be the cheatin’ devil involved, or some abracadabra on the field, rabbits up our sleeves or hopping around in our jockstraps and making us win championships, and meanwhile, we’re makin’ out and drinking beer and dancing our asses off at Dante’s Ra—Spencer!”

She screamed, matching the squealing of Spencer’s tires as he slammed the brakes. In the middle of the highway, a guy at a dead sprint turned at the sound, eyes wild with fear, holding up a hand as if that alone could stop Spencer’s SUV. Spencer stopped at a sideways skid, grazing the guy’s shoulder and sending him tumbling across the bike lane and into the drainage ditch.