He scoffs. “You’re not very confident, either.”

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “I won an award.”

  “See? This…” He gestures between us. “This is the start of a beautiful friendship. Now, come on.” He tugs on my arm again. “Let’s go learn from the master.”

  I let him drag me with him down the hall. We’re going to the same place, anyway. Might as well go with the flow. Also, I’ve been at a new school for less than a day and I’ve already made a friend. Sort of. Kinda.

  Either way, it feels nice.

  Dylan claims the last two seats in the front row for us. As we sit down, I clear my throat, giving myself a moment to second-guess what I’m about to say. He’ll find out, eventually. People always do.

  “Well, if we’re going to be such beautiful friends,” I say, “I guess now is a good time to tell you that my father is John Kirby.”

  Dylan wrinkles his brow. “Who?”

  “Good morning, class!”

  Two dozen eyes thrust forward, heads swiveling to look at Grant at the front of the classroom. He hops up to sit on the desk, his brown loafers dangling a foot off the floor as he scans the room with a long smile.

  “This is Playwriting 101 and I am your host for the semester, Grant Wilson.”

  Dylan visibly shudders, his hands shaking in his lap, and… he’s not the only one.

  I glance around at my classmates, their expressions full of wild admiration, their bodies leaned forward to catch every word that leaves his mouth.

  Not a single one of them knows who I am, nor who my father is.

  They probably wouldn’t even care if they did.

  I smile to myself.

  “I know day one is meant for going over the syllabus, but mine is short and sweet, so let’s get it out of the way now,” Grant says. “Show up to every class. I won’t be taking role. You’re adults in charge of your own time, but you are paying to be here, so you might as well get the most out of it.

  “Do the reading — and yes, there will be lots of it. If you want to write, you have to read. Make time for it.

  “Last, you have one and only one assignment this semester. Each one of you will write a one-act play. The due date for these plays is November 30th. If I don’t have it in my inbox by 11:59 PM on that date, you will fail this course. This deadline is set in stone because your plays will be performed ten days later at the annual winter theatre showcase and those students need time to learn their lines.” He smiles. “Any questions?”

  A dozen happy hands shoot up, Dylan’s included.

  I sit still, my entire body frozen solid.

  The annual winter theatre showcase?

  That’s… a lot bigger than a display case in the Chicago North High library.

  I swallow hard.

  CHAPTER 8

  CONNOR

  This place is a damn labyrinth.

  I was twelve the first time I walked the tangled halls of the Chicago North rec center. The university asked my parents to speak at their centennial event and, Northies to the bone, they couldn’t say no. Afterward, my mom took my sister to Talon Hall to show her the auditorium, and my father took me to the football field. The look of pride on his face as I stood beside him in the end zone was contagious, like a king admiring his beloved kingdom. He was a Northie. A Bearhawk. Forever.

  That was the day I knew I wanted to be a Northie, too.

  From there, he walked me through the rec center, constantly pointed out places he used to hang out. Places he used to work out. Places that weren’t there when he was in school.

  “And here…” he said, leading me deep into the empty locker room. He stopped by a locker and smiled, tapping it twice with a thick knuckle. “This is where I first asked out your mom.”

  I glanced around, confused. “What was Mom doing in the men’s locker room?”

  Dad stuttered, uncharacteristically flustered. “Well, she was… looking for your grandfather,” he said, clearing his throat. “He was our coach, remember?”

  It made sense at the time, but now I wonder what else there is to that story.

  I’ll ask Grant some day.

  Now, attempting to navigate these sprawling halls, I wonder how long it’ll take before I have it memorized the way my father did that day.

  I reach the locker room with time to spare, following the familiar voices echoing throughout the space. It’s weird to use the word nostalgic at eighteen, but the sounds inspire the feeling in me. The slam of a locker. The shuffle of cleats lacing up. I’ve lived in many locker rooms throughout my life, but they all leave my heart pounding with possibility. Win or lose, it’s always about the game.

  And your teammates.

  I spot Alex and Ben and rush over, them already clad in their uniforms. Our scout jerseys are gold and blue — the colors inverted from the usual Bearhawk blue and gold to differentiate us on the field. Both of their jerseys say KIRBY on the back, so they strapped on colored armbands so others can tell them apart. Alex red. Ben blue.

  Alex laughs as he notices me. “Cutting it close, eh?”

  “It’s day one,” Ben teases.

  I chuckle, my T-shirt already off and tossed in the locker. “I’ve got plenty of time.”

  “You know Coach Thomas will not let tardiness fly.”

  “I’m not tardy.”

  “You’re gonna be,” Alex says as he closes his locker. “Ten minutes to whistle.”

  “I’ll be there on time if you two stop yapping.”

  We laugh.

  “Morgan’s late?” A voice asks behind us. “Some things never change, eh, Heartbreaker?”

  I freeze, turning toward the guy standing by the line of lockers next to ours, hoping I misheard the voice, but I’m not that lucky.

  I glare into his icy blue eyes, eyes that trigger nothing but hatred in my chest.

  Emerson Floyd.

  Alex and Ben stiffen. I do, too.

  “The fuck are you doing here?” Alex asks, stepping forward, coming in hot. I don’t blame him at all. “Thought you were going to UCLA.”

  “Change of plans,” Emerson says, his jersey marked with the same inverted colors as ours.

  “You don’t even play football,” Ben says, matching his brother’s tone perfectly.

  “I do, actually. I just didn’t play for Chicago North High. I walked on here and tried out, earned my place on the scouts, same as you.”

  Alex scoffs. “That’s bullshit.”

  “No, that’s just life,” Emerson says, his gaze drifting toward me. He smiles at my angry scowl, his own fairytale prince-like jawline carved from marble. “What? You thought you’d just waltz onto this field and own it because of who your daddy is?” he says. “Well, my dad was a Bearhawk, too. My dad played pro, too.”

  “Never won a ring, though,” Alex spits.

  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 Illuminated magazine.”

  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.”

  “Then why the cold shoulder?” A quick step forward, phone presented. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I’m gonna be late for practice,” I say. “Why? What’s there to tell you?”

  “Why? What have you heard?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  I arch a brow. “Is there something specific you’re fishing for, Ms. Wells?”

  Trisha presses her lips together as her eyes search the ramp. “Scandal at Chicago North,” she whispers beneath the sounds on the field. “Rumor has it there’s about to be quite the shake-up in the coaching department. Bye-bye, Coach Thomas. Hello, fresh blood. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Why would I know anything about that?” I ask with a shrug.

  “Nothing’s been whispered around the dinner table at home?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “How about the Kirby house?” She juts her chin toward Alex and Ben as she leans in closer to me. “Y’all are close, right? Rose is faculty here. Has she mentioned anything?”

  I tilt back. “Not to me.”

  She hums lightly. Or is it a growl?

  “Trisha.”

  “Rats,” she whispers, annoyed by the strong male tone behind her. Then, she throws on a smile and spins around to face the man standing at the locker room exit. “Hunter, darling! How are you? You’re looking very... thick, as usual.”

  I bob my head, somewhat thankful for his interruption. “Hey, Coach Novak.”

  Hunter nods at me as he crosses his arms, his biceps testing the sleeves of his T-shirt as he eyes Trisha Wells, the tension between them full of history. While I don’t know the full story, I know she was Daisy’s boss back in the day. The two of them worked together on the Home Run Hunter expose for the magazine, an article that became the famous Home Run Baby story the world knows and loves. Violet’s story.

  “You’re a little far from Los Angeles, Trisha,” he says.

  “The magazine sent me,” she says, then smiles. “Didn’t Daisy tell you I was coming?”

  He hums, stiff but amused.

  “You honestly didn’t expect me to not fly out here and cover this story personally, did you?” she adds, swinging to my side to wrap an arm around my waist. “The children of arguably the most impressive starting line-up in Chicago North Bearhawk history are taking the field for the first time today! Of course I’m here in person, Hunter. It’s a goddamn historical event!”

  I chortle. Laying it on a little thick there, Ms. Wells.

  “No one’s taking the field at all if you don’t let the kid get to practice on time,” Hunter says.

  “When you’re right, you’re right.” Trisha gives my arm a squeeze before releasing me. “I’ll be in the stands.” She leans in again. “If you hear anything, call me. You still have my number, right?”

  Not sure exactly what I’m supposed to be listening for, but I nod politely anyway. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Wells.”

  Trisha spins on her heels, offering us a wink as she goes. “You tell my little ballerina that Home Run Baby 2 is still on the table,” she says to Hunter.

  “No, it’s not,” he says, firm and protective.

  She cackles. “Go, Bearhawks!” she says, her voice echoing over the sound of her shoes clacking on the concrete toward the field.

  Hunter bridges the gap between us with a few long strides. “You okay, bud?” he asks me.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Thanks for the assist, Coach. I’d almost forgotten how... persistent she can be.”

  Hunter laughs. “I know the feeling.” He eyes me closely. “So, what’d she ask you about?”

  I pause, wondering if I should be truthful or make something up. Hunter works for the athletics department. The baseball branch, sure, but he’d probably know more about a “shake-up” at Chicago North than I would.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just excited to see us play, that’s all.”

  “She’s not the only one.” He steps forward up the ramp. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re coming, too?”

  Hunter smiles as we walk. “I am taking the afternoon off to watch boys I’ve known their entire lives take the field at Chicago North for the first time.”

  “It’s just a scrimmage.”

  “It’s more than that.” He takes a quick step ahead of me and pauses. “As persistent as Trisha can be, she has a point. It’s your legacy out there, Connor. That field is your home for the next four years, just as it was your dad’s home for four years. And John’s. And Ty’s, too. And sure, your grandfather only coached them for a season, but he left his mark on this school, too. Now, it’s your turn.”

  I take a breath. “Didn’t realize you all were so sentimental.”

  “You’ll understand better when you’re older.” He pats my shoulder. “Come on. Go show ‘em what you got.”

  We continue up the ramp; him veering off toward the bleachers while I join up with Alex and Ben on the sidelines along with a dozen other players from the scout team. My gaze hops directly to the man standing a few yards away, his presence so obvious I don’t even need to read his name along the back to know who he is.

  FLOYD.

  “Where’d you go?” Alex asks me. “You were right behind us.”

  I point over our shoulders, and he scoffs at the group gathered there. My parents. Their parents. Ty, too. Trisha finds a seat next to Daisy with her phone in her hands, thumbs tapping away at the screen while Daisy fiddles with her camera.

  And the legendary Cary Pierce, of course.

  My grandfather grins at me, offering a wave. I wave back before sliding my helmet on.

  “They’re not gonna do this every practice, are they?” Ben asks, annoyed.

  I laugh, recalling how Courtney used to get pissed at this same thing. Mom and Dad showed up at her rehearsals in Talon Hall for weeks before she politely asked them to back off.

  “Nah, it’ll die down eventually,” I say, choosing to believe it myself. “They’re just excited to see us play.”

  “You know they’ll come to every game, though,” Alex says.

  I nod. “Can’t be helped.”

  Ben groans.

  “Scout team! Huddle up!”

  Two dozen of us step forward, prompted by the booming voice of Coach Thomas carrying from the forty-yard line. He walks toward us, meeting us halfway along with another player in starter colors. Even with the helmet on, I can tell who he is. A man who needs no introduction.

  Jordan Jefferson, starting quarterback for the Chicago North Bearhawks.

  I stand up taller, unable to fight the urge to be noticed.

  “All right!” Coach Thomas claps his clipboard. “Let’s get warmed up. First, I need my QBs-in-training to go with Jefferson here.” He glances at his page. “That’s Morgan...”

  I step forward, prompting a burst of shouts from the bleachers, which I ignore completely.

  “And Floyd!”

  Floyd?

  My head swivels as Emerson steps forward to stand beside me. Somehow, I just noticed how much thicker his shoulders are than mine. How much taller than me he is.

  I bite down hard, my jaw digging into the edge of my helmet.

  Coach Thomas nods. “You two go with Jefferson. The rest of you are with me. Let’s get warmed up.”

  He waves an arm and walks toward center field, the remaining scouts following close behind him.

  Jordan takes a step toward us so he doesn’t have to shout over the growing mayhem on the field. “So,” he says with a cocky southern drawl, “you two are my shadows this season.” A sadistic laugh. “Get ready to spend a lot of time together.”

  Emerson looks at me as I look at him.

  Well, shit.

  So much for avoiding him entirely.

  CHAPTER 9

  CONNOR

  “I can’t believe that guy thinks he can be quarterback.” Alex’s white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel hasn’t loosened since we left campus. “Or even a Bearhawk.”

  I exhale softly from the backseat, having had this conversation with myself multiple times throughout practice.

  Emerson shouldn’t be here. Why not?

  Well, he doesn’t deserve to be. Why not? He tried out, same as you.