The Southern Nights Series Read online

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I tossed a football around with Miranda before one of her practices. Coach McKenzie saw me and I didn’t have a choice after that,” she explains, irked. Miranda is the tiny bubbly blonde wearing the number nineteen. She’s a wide receiver. I know she’ll probably kick ass catching passes. Her boyfriend, Logan, is an all-state tight end. I’m sure he gave her a few pointers. I would have done the same for Laney if I knew she was QB.

  “Our little lesson paid off.” I can’t help but smile proudly.

  “Apparently so.” She sounds like she regrets ever picking up a football. It hurts my heart.

  “You’re wearing my number. How did that happen?” She glares at me. The sun making her blue irises crystallize.

  Laney shrugs. “It’s a quarterback’s number.”

  “There are lots of quarterback numbers, why that one?”

  She’s reluctant to answer as Coach McKenzie barks at her to get on the field. “It has heart.”

  I watch her hustle away and take her place in the huddle. I feel like I’m soaring, dangerously close to believing a chance at reconciliation isn’t dead after all.

  We won the coin toss, so the Slammers have the ball. I watch mesmerized as the girls line up. They look so little on that huge field. Laney stands behind the center whom I recognize from the lacrosse team. She’s got some girth. Laney calls hike, and the ball is snapped into her hands. She shuffles, looking for an open receiver when she’s sacked. Hard. Shit. She didn’t even see it coming. It takes her a second to get up. I want to run out onto the field and make sure she’s okay. But she makes it to her feet and goes right back in. Fight, Laney, you have to fight.

  The next play Laney is able to pass, but it’s incomplete, just inches away from Miranda’s fingers. This goes on for two more downs. It’s the third down and the ball hasn’t advanced at all. I hear coach call a running play. A 134 Sweep on the outside. Laney will have to run it. I hear her repeat in the huddle, her little voice already hoarse from yelling. The line takes position and Laney screams hike. The girls block left and right, making a tiny opening for Laney to sneak through. I hold my breath as she gets lost in shoving bodies then reemerges with the football tucked in her arm. She books it down the field, with two linemen—excuse me, line women—hot on her tail. I find myself screaming, along with everyone else, as Laney is tackled right on the five-yard line. Nice breakaway!

  We’re in scoring position.

  Coach calls another play. We all feel the excitement. Scoring is a rush.

  Laney crouches behind the center and calls hike. Miranda makes it into the end zone, and Laney fires it. Touchdown!

  Then she’s tackled. For no good reason. “What the fuck! Unnecessary roughness!”

  “Ellis! Mouth,” Coach McKenzie reprimands me.

  “She was just sacked after the TD! Where’s the penalty?”

  “It’s going to be up your ass if you don’t zip it and cheer.” He looks back at me and scowls.

  I flip him the finger. Inside my head.

  Laney takes a seat on the bench, and I bring her some water. “Is it this nerve-wracking watching me play?”

  “Yes,” she takes a big gulp. “Especially when you don’t get up after you’re tackled.”

  I frown. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

  “We’re not worried anymore. And it’s all part of the game, right?” She huffs, out of breath.

  “I’m learning it’s all part of life. Take a hit, get right back up.”

  “I’ll remember that next time number sixty-seven steamrolls me.” Laney rolls her shoulder and stretches her neck.

  “They’re a little aggressive, huh?”

  “They’re out for blood. One of the girls said she overheard the defense talking about retribution for state. And they’re all gunning for me.”

  “Shit,” I spit.

  “Summers!” Coach calls. Offense has the ball.

  “Any last minute pointers before I go back out there?” she asks.

  “Yeah, avoid getting tackled at all costs.”

  “Oh, that’s a big help.” She chucks the paper cup at me and runs onto the field. I won’t lie, I like looking at her ass in those tight shorts. We finally have a common interest in the sport.

  For the next two quarters I proceed to watch Laney get her ass handed to her. Literally. North is playing dirty as hell. I’ve made sure to voice my opinion on the matter, repeatedly.

  By the fourth quarter, Laney looks wiped. Her pigtails are a mess, she’s covered in grass stains, and I think she hurt her left elbow. She won’t admit it though, no matter how much I badger her about it. She’s a warrior, I’ll give her that. Watching this game has solidified my feelings for her. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s the girl I have to be with.

  There’s two minutes left on the clock, and we’re down by six. This game has been full-on war. North’s team is on steroids or something; they hit harder than the guys.

  It’s third down on the five-yard line, and we have an opportunity to score. Laney tries for a pass, but it’s incomplete.

  “Run! She has to run it!” I boisterously tell Coach McKenzie. I’ve secured a position on the sideline right next to him. So much for cheerleading. I wasn’t that into it anyway. Too much testosterone.

  “Can it, Ellis,” Coach smirks. “I’m going to run it.”

  He calls out the play. It’s short and sweet. Nothing like the paragraphs I needed to memorize on a weekly basis: 35 liberty west right flanker out pop eighty hot yellow yellow void java java right flat.

  Laney gets 138 Blast, straight up the middle.

  The line sets up, and Laney yells hike. She barrels through the wall of bodies only to get shut down on the two-yard line. Fuck! This is anxiety at its best. I know she can do this! Coach tries to call another running play, but I interrupt him. “A draw. Run a draw!” They both look at me like I’m nuts.

  “She’s on the two-yard line with ninety seconds left on the clock,” he argues with me. We have no timeouts left, so I have to make my argument quick.

  “Exactly. They’ll never expect it. What do we have to lose?”

  “The game, genius!”

  “Lemon, run the play!” I yell to her from the sideline and Coach throws up his hands. She nods.

  “I suppose you want to take over coaching next year, too?” he asks exasperated.

  “Nah, I’ll be in college by then. Gotta have a little fun before I die.” I wink at him.

  “With or without college, Ellis, I don’t think you’ll have any shortage on fun.”

  I shush him playfully. “Gotta watch my girl score a touchdown.”

  “I didn’t realize you were dating.” Coach arches an eyebrow.

  “She doesn’t realize it either, but I’m changing that tonight.” I vow.

  Coach scoffs. “Good luck with that. It looked like she wanted to scratch your eyes out before.”

  “She did.” I smile. “City girl—thinks she’s tough.”

  “From what I saw today, she is.” He stands stoically on the sideline, arms crossed.

  That makes me smile even more.

  Laney yells hike, and I watch, with all the air subdued in my lungs, as she drops back like she’s going to pass, then fakes and hands the ball to the running back behind her. The tall blonde finds a hole in the line and runs seamlessly into the end zone.

  TOUCHDOWN!

  Everyone on the sidelines and in the stands goes berserk.

  “Alright, alright! No celebration yet, we’re still down by one!” Coach McKenzie screams. He sends in the kicker. This is in the bag. I’ve seen Sherry punt, she’s a soccer player who can launch the ball seventy-five yards.

  The line quickly reforms. My heart is beating out of my chest. North looks burned up. They came for retribution, and all they got was another ass kicking. When will they learn?

  The center snaps the ball, and Laney positions it laces out. Sherry kicks and all eyes follow as it soar
s perfectly between the goal posts.

  Wolverines twenty-eight; North twenty-seven. Losers.

  The Slammers run off the field animated and victorious. Laney jumps into my arms as soon as she reaches me. I’m not sure what sparked it, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “You kicked butt, QB.”

  “I had a stellar offensive coach.” Laney tries to slide down my body, but I stop her. I’m not letting her go. Ever again.

  “Kam, put me down.”

  “No.”

  “Come on.” She kicks her legs, but I still refuse her.

  “We need to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Besides, I need ice for my elbow.”

  “You did hurt it.” I stare her down. I would have iced it a quarter and a half ago. “Fine, we’ll get ice, and we’ll talk.” I march straight off the field, down the throughway and into the locker room.

  “Kam! This is the boys’ locker room, I can’t be in here!”

  “Of course, you can. No one’s here. Besides, this stadium has the best rehab room in the state.” I plant Laney on the bench in front of my old locker. She looks around as I retrieve an ice pack, a thin towel, and some wrap. “Put your arm out,” I instruct. She does, and I carefully place the wrapped ice pack against her elbow and wind the bandage around it. “Better?”

  She looks at her arm. “It’s good. Thanks.”

  “Welcome. Now, let’s talk.” I straddle the bench so we are sitting face to face.

  “About what?”

  “Us.”

  Laney huffs. “There is no us.”

  “Well, there should be.” I debate.

  “I can’t be with someone I can’t trust.”

  “Damn it, Laney, you can trust me.” I slam the locker beside me with my fist. She jumps. “Have you seen me with one other girl since we broke up? And don’t say Darla, because that doesn’t count. Nothing happened.”

  “No,” she answers.

  “And why do you think that is?”

  “No fresh meat?” She digs.

  I groan. “Are all city girls as frustrating as you?”

  “Yes, it’s part of our charm.”

  That causes me to crack a smile. “Do you want to know why I messed around with all those girls?”

  “Do I want to know?” She curls her lip.

  “Yes. Maybe it will give you some perspective. You know who my ex is, right?”

  “Of course, everyone knows who Cheyenne is. Head cheerleader, prom queen, student body president.”

  “Yup, that’s her. She’s also self-centered, egotistical, and a mega bitch. I spent three years of my life with a girl who didn’t give two shits about me. All she cared about was her social status and what I could do for it. I finally had enough when she showed up to my grandfather’s funeral two hours late and didn’t even kiss me hello or offer her condolences to my father. Who wants to date a person like that? So, I dumped her, vowing I was going to spend my senior year having fun and not be tied down.”

  “Well, it sort of worked out that way,” Laney comments.

  “Yeah, everything was going fine until a smart-mouthed, city girl with blue eyes and crazy streaked hair strolled into first period and sat next to me. I was attracted to you the first second I saw you, and you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

  “You shouldn’t have called me sugar right off the bat.” She shrugs.

  “I call everyone sugar. It’s habit.”

  “Exactly. I didn’t want to be part of your bad habit. I didn’t want to be another girl on your roster.”

  “You had to know you weren’t just another girl.”

  “For a second, I thought I was different.”

  “You are.” I grab her hand. It feels so good in mine. “And I’m collecting on our bet. I’m not letting you get away again.”

  “Bet?” She raises her eyebrows.

  “Yeah, the one we made in chem the morning of the state championships. If I recall, we won and covered the spread.”

  “You’re devious.” She leers.

  “Yup, and I want you.”

  “That bet was just my body. No strings attached.” She reminds me.

  “We can start there, Lemon. You got a taste of what I can do to your body.” Laney’s eyes flash. “And that was just the tip of the iceberg.” I lean in and brush my lips against hers. She stiffens, fighting me. “What do you say? Will you give me one night to prove myself?”

  Laney looks up at me with confliction in her eyes. “One night, Kam,” she sighs, giving in.

  “That’s all I need.”

  LANEY CLIMBS INTO my pickup a little after ten pm.

  She wouldn’t let me come to the door, even though I insisted.

  “I can’t believe your father let you walk out of the house without meeting me. It feels rude. I didn’t even get to shake his hand.”

  “One, my father’s in New York. And two, he only shakes the hands of guys I believe are going to stick around.” She slams the passenger’s side door.

  “You have the wrong impression of me, Lemon.”

  “Well, isn’t that what tonight’s for? To prove that impression wrong?”

  “Yup.” I throw the truck into D and pull away.

  “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “For a little drive.” I grin slyly.

  “You know when you say that to a New Yorker they become extremely paranoid.”

  I look at her funny.

  “That’s a mafia joke.” She explains.

  “Oh. I don’t think we have any Sopranos in these parts.”

  She snickers.

  I drive around for about a half hour before we pull up to our destination.

  “The football stadium?” Laney looks at me, confused.

  “Yup.” I park off to the side, in the dark, so my pickup isn’t noticed. I’d like to avoid any interruptions. Laney and I get out of the truck, and I grab the two blankets and cooler from the cab. She follows as I walk down a dark path.

  “Are you sure I don’t have anything to be worried about?” Laney sounds slightly paranoid.

  “Not when you’re with me, Lemon.” I slip through an opening in the fence. It’s by the dumpsters so there’s not the most appealing smell in the air, but we will be far away from it soon enough. “Every year there’s a field party thrown by the seniors. This is how we sneak in.”

  A few minutes later we’re walking onto the end zone. Laney does a little turn, looking up. “God, you never see this many stars in the city.”

  “Beauty of country living.” It’s dark on the field, but the sky is twinkling with a billion platinum dots and a huge, full moon that’s casting a silvery light. There’s just enough illumination to see and still enough darkness to hide us.

  “And it’s crazy the Wolverines have their own stadium. Most schools just have a field.”

  “We’re not most schools. We’ve won state nineteen times.”

  “Quite a legacy to leave behind,” she muses. I frown. She has no idea, especially if I’m never going to play football again. I walk Laney across the field over the ten, twenty, and thirty-yard lines until we finally reach the fifty. The dead center of the universe. Well, my universe. I lay out one of the blankets and drop the cooler. It’s colder than one would expect an Alabama night to be, but the smell of the fresh-cut grass is as potent as ever. I inhale deeply—it’s almost as heady as Laney’s exotic scent.

  I motion for Laney to sit. Once situated, I open the cooler and pull out two cups and an orange Gatorade water bottle. Laney shoots me a skeptical look.

  “I promise it’s not what you think.” I pour her a cup, then one for myself.

  “Okay, I trust you.”

  I pause. “Nice to know we’re making progress.” I clink my red Solo cup against hers. “To trust. And forgiveness.”

  “And playing football,” Laney adds.

  I die a little death. “You certainly played your heart out today.”


  “I didn’t want to make the infamous number seven look bad.”

  “You could never make it look bad. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to see you wear that number.”

  “Since the first moment you met me?” She bats her eyelashes.

  “Something like that.” I take a sip trying to hide my smile, and Laney does, too.

  “Mmm, what is this?” she asks curiously, looking into the cup.

  “You like it?”

  “Yes.” She takes another sip.

  “Iced tea vodka and lemonade.”

  “Much better than sweet tea,” she licks her lips.

  “You don’t like sweet tea?” I ask, a little shocked.

  “You didn’t notice I never drank anything at dinner when we were studying?”

  “I did. I just never thought . . . I mean, I can’t imagine anyone not liking sweet tea.”

  “I felt bad telling your mom I didn’t like it.”

  “You really are a Yankee,” I tease.

  “Born and bred.” She laughs.

  “I forgive you,” I joke.

  “We can’t all be perfect like you.” She knocks her knees against mine.

  “I’m not perfect anymore. Not that I ever was.” I look up at the starry sky.

  “You’re too hard on yourself.” I can feel Laney’s eyes searing through me.

  “I don’t know any other way to be.” I shrug. “My whole life I’ve been under a spotlight. People have either wanted something or expected something from me. I’ve always felt pressure to deliver.”

  “I see,” she considers, taking another sip of her drink. I didn’t mean to get deep, but it’s easy to talk to Laney. Too easy sometimes.

  “So, why is your dad in New York?” I clear my throat, my soul feeling a little too bare.

  “He’s guest starring on America’s Next Top Chef. He’s the celebrity judge.”

  “That sounds cool.”

  “Yeah, he asked me to go with him, but I couldn’t bail on the football game. Miranda would have skinned me.”

  “You passed on a trip to New York to play Powder Puff football?” I raise my eyebrows.

  “Why do you sound shocked?”

  “Because I am.” I laugh.

  “Why?” she demands.

  “Because football is just a game to you.”