Shut Out

Randy hesitated for a second, looking between me and Logan.

I gave him a nice hard glare. A wordless warning of what might happen if he didn’t side with me here.

“Fine,” he said. “I won’t be a part of it.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“You’re so uptight, Lissa,” Logan grumbled.

“Leave her alone,” Dad said. “She’s looking out for people. It’s sweet.”

Sweet, I thought bitterly as the doorbell rang behind me. God, it was so condescending. Like I was an overly sensitive little kid. Couldn’t they see how ridiculous the rivalry was? How continuing to retaliate would just make it go on forever? Soccer, football—they were just games. Neither sport was worth this much drama.

I went into the living room to get the door. The delivery boy handed me the large pizza and Dad’s salad. From the kitchen I could hear laughter and cheers as the boys discussed the game they’d be watching that night. Betting on who would win and lose, the topic of torturing freshmen dropped and forgotten.

The rivalry wasn’t brought up again until later that evening, when Randy and I sat out on the front porch steps, the game having ended and my dad and Logan already off to bed.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Randy said quietly, his arm sliding around my shoulders, pulling me against him. “Sorry those assholes had to show up and ruin everything.”

I had to bite back a sigh of frustration. He still didn’t get it. Didn’t get that ru

“Shane’s got a plan to get back at them,” he continued. “A good one.”

“You’re not going to help, though,” I pressed. “I know I probably shouldn’t have called you out in front of Dad and Logan, but I’m serious. I don’t want you involved in all that.”

Randy gave me a hopeless look. “Shane and the guys are going to give me hell for backing out.”

“Aw. Will they pick on you, sweetie?” I asked. “Should I call their parents?”

“I’m serious,” he said. “They’ll call me a pussy.”

“And if you help them, I’ll call you a dick. So no matter what you do, you’re going to be some form of genitalia.” I gri

Randy stared down at me for a second. “What would you do to me?”

“I obviously can’t tell you. That’d ruin the surprise.” I poked him in the chest. “But I can tell you that it wouldn’t be this.” I glanced around to make sure there were no cars coming, no neighbors staring out of windows, no one to see. Then slowly, tantalizingly, I leaned up and pressed my lips against his. The kiss was long and hot, but before it got too deep, I pulled back, leaving Randy with an awed, hungry look on his face.

And leaving my cheeks on fire.

“I bet Shane can’t do that,” I said.

“Maybe he can. You don’t know.”

“How do you know I don’t know?”

Randy blinked at me, and I laughed. “Kidding. I’d never hook up with Shane. You’re the only Neanderthal I can deal with.”

“Thanks. I’m flattered.”

I kissed him on the cheek and rested my head on his shoulder. “Seriously, though. Please don’t mess with the soccer players. Just let it go. For me?”

Randy let out a long sigh. “Yeah… I guess.”

“Thank you.”

His fingers wrapped around mine and I snuggled against him. Now that he seemed to be listening to my entreaties, I was sure we would get through this autumn; we’d survive the rivalry. I was sure it would all work out. We fell into a comfortable silence, staring up at one of the last starry nights of the summer.

chapter three

I know that most schools have rivalries with other schools, but that’s not how it worked at Hamilton High. Nope. Our biggest battles were fought on the home front.

It all started back when Logan was a junior in high school. That’s when the school board decided to start an official school-sponsored soccer team. I don’t know all the details—I was in second grade, and anything that didn’t involve ponies just wasn’t worth my time—but in a small town like ours, taking away half of the football team’s funding to create another fall sport was pretty scandalous.

Apparently the football players got pissed at having to share time in the workout room, and the crowds that usually filled the stands at games began to dwindle as more and more people started going to watch the soccer team play. Hostility rose between them—and between the teams’ coaches—and eventually a full-on war broke out.

Now, you’d think the drama would fade over time, right? Like, after the teams graduated and new players came in, it would die.

So not the case.

A decade later, the rivalry was still going strong. Every fall, when sports season started up, the battle would rage again. And the dumbest part was, I don’t think the boys even knew why it had started to begin with. I’d asked Randy once and he’d just shrugged.

“Does it really matter?” he’d asked.

To me, a girl who had to share her boyfriend with the war every autumn, it did. But not to the players. They just knew that they hated one another. That was enough.

“Dickhead!” Randy yelled across the cafeteria as Kyle Forrester, the soccer team’s goalie, gave him the middle finger.

I cringed at the volume of the obscenity in my ear, and I tapped Randy on the shoulder. “Hey, would you mind lowering the volume a little? I’d like my hearing to last a few more years.” He flashed a quick smile at me and hooked an arm around my waist as he turned his attention back to the soccer team’s table.

I was glad he didn’t notice the way I tensed.

I sat at the lunch table, sandwiched between Randy and my best friend, Chloe. Though Chloe was too busy flirting with Michael Conrad to notice the stares we were getting from the rest of the student body. This was so not what I needed on a Monday.

I already had a headache from staying up too late the night before. That was the fatal flaw in my weekend schedule—with Randy over on Saturday nights, I didn’t get to do any homework until Sunday. With three AP classes on my plate, that meant lots of homework and late-night studying. Having people yell insults over my head the next day, while I was still exhausted? Not fun.

And also completely embarrassing. I rapped my knuckles against the table in a fast, anxious rhythm.

“Hey, could you keep it down? Seriously,” I said to Randy just as one of Kyle’s buddies yelled, “Fuck you!” back at us.

Randy shot him a glare before giving me an apologetic nod. “You okay?” he asked.

“Fine. I just have a headache.”

He put a hand on the side of my head and smoothed back my hair, pushing some of the straight black strands from my eyes. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Well, you can—”

And that’s when the glob of mashed potatoes landed in a disgusting mound on the table, right in front of me. They’d been flung, undoubtedly, by one of the soccer players at Kyle’s table.

“Gross,” I said, scooting my chair away from the table. “Randy, can you please put an end to this?”

But he wasn’t listening. He was too busy glaring at the soccer team’s table, a look of deep concentration on his reddening face. For some reason, it reminded me of a caveman contemplating how to make fire. Only Randy didn’t want fire. He wanted a way to get revenge without getting detention—or, worse, suspended—in the process.

I stood up just as his best friend, Shane, picked up an orange and pulled back his arm, aiming for one of the soccer players’ heads.

“Where you going, babe?” Randy asked, turning away from his enemies and reaching for my hand.