Chapter Four
Lucas’s mind stuttered. He’d nearly kissed her. He’d like…nearly kissed her. Her taillights disappeared around a corner, and he looked up at the sky. Why was he such an idiot? The absolutely last thing he needed to do was kiss Coach’s daughter, and yet it was the only thing he’d wanted to do. It had been as if she was a magnet to something deep inside him.
In those seconds that their faces had been so freaking close, every thought he’d had about football, about his mom, his old school, their new house—everything—had disappeared from his mind. For a few seconds, all he’d wanted was to touch her hair, to hold on to that feeling, to her.
And then he’d headbutted her, and if that wasn’t the universe telling him to stay away, he didn’t know what was. But then she’d made him laugh, and damn if he didn’t want to kiss her again.
So he’d walked away. She’d tried to talk to him, she’d tried to help him, and he’d walked away, against the pull of every cell in his body that had wanted to lean in to her.
He was a complete tool—yet again. It was like he had a total inability to stop screwing up. Maybe he got this screwing-up gene from his father? Maybe the best thing for him to do was just stay away from people. At the very least, stay away from Avery.
Lucas wanted to kick the fire hydrant he’d leaped over on the way to practice. He’d been so cocky on his way back to the school that afternoon.
Maybe he just had to reset. To commit to being Lucas Black. To forget about what happened before. But he needed to play. Needed the entire focus he had on the field. Football was his medicine. Not for the glory or for what it could bring him—which was nothing anymore—but for the peace and pure love of the game.
He just needed something to help him find that again. Or someone.
He started running, a slow comfortable pace that barely elevated his heart rate. Every step he took brought him further into darkness as the streetlights became fewer and farther between. But for once, the darkness brought warmth and comfort.
He was heading home. Maybe he’d get there in time to catch his mom before she left for her shift at the hospital. Maybe she’d be able to talk him down about his catastrophic practice.
But by the time he got home, the house was empty, except for a note.
He opened the fridge, hoping it was pizza, because even though he’d eaten, he always had room for pizza. He pulled a plate covered in plastic wrap toward him. Chicken and rice. He put it back. Today was clearly not his day.
He went to his room and collapsed onto his bed. Maybe if he could just be still for a moment, he could find his center again. If he’d ever had one. Football had always, always, been about the glory, the girls, the parties, the kids holding signs with his shirt number. But his game had only gotten good when he’d given up his hopes of his father coming back and just enjoyed it.
Now he had to do the same. Give up the old reasons to play—the glory, the attention, the scholarships—and just love the game again. Pure and simple.
But to do that, he actually had to play. Get a regular spot on the team for the rest of the season. To just disappear into the Zen of the game.
And to do that, he needed help.
He remembered what Avery had said after he had bolted from her car. Something about visualizing his hands in the space around the ball before he caught it. No one had ever given him advice like that before. His previous coaches had just let him play, trained him hard in the gym, but offered no real instruction.
That’s because I’d been able to catch every ball thrown at me since I was about nine.
He sat up. He needed instruction. He needed help from someone who knew what they were talking about.
Someone who’s hair I wanted to feel running through my fingers. Someone I’d wanted to kiss so badly that, for a second, I’d thought about dragging her over the center console onto my lap.
He needed Avery.