Page 14 of We're All Liars

“But you did. There’s nothing weak about you, Morgan.”

This is too much. His words. The feelings rising in my core. Because I want to cry. And I’ve cried more than enough lately. “Good night.” I release him and turn to walk away.

“Morgan.”

When I turn back to face him, he lifts his arm in the air, making a circular motion with his index finger. I instantly raise my hand and give him the middle finger, to which he only laughs.

“My offer still stands. Forever.” He moves towards me, eliminating the little space I put between us. He leans down, stopping just before his lips touch mine. “Give me the signal whenever you’re ready.” Then he gives me a soft, quick kiss before he turns and walks away.

14

CADE

She’s barely glanced my way since our conversation on Halloween. Now, four days later, her eyes are pinned on me during the pep rally.Please don’t let her have anything planned. I keep saying I’ll take whatever she dishes out, but that’s a lot easier said than done.

Principal Thatcher ends his version of a motivational speech just before the band strikes up our fight song. Morgan mechanically follows along, dully performing the routine’s choreography as my teammates start jogging out of the gym. And as much as I don’t want to, I follow them into the locker room and drop down on the bench as Coach starts his BS.

I prop back against the locker, my thoughts everywhere except the game until I hear Coach yell, “Crawford, wake up.”

“Yeah,” I reply but don’t move.

Coach yammers on about being present and supporting each other, all a load of bull I don’t believe he even buys. He will say anything to convince us to win but isn’t actually a decent enough person to make the team rally behind him based on his leadership.

Finally shutting up, he heads back to his office. Neil and Topher assume their typical conversation about the afterparty which isn’t at Neil’s place for a change since his parents are finally home. So, the backup plan for tonight is hanging at the field. I don’t want to be here any longer than need be.

Hours later, it’s finally time to take the field against Archbishop Mathis High School. There’re still two more games in the regular season—including today’s—but this is the one that really counts. Winning this game will decide who gets home field advantage when we meet in playoffs, and it’s a sure thing we’ll both be there. Tonight, we’ll find out who gets the advantage to be on their own turf.

After losing the coin toss, the Eagles kick off to us. When I’m on the field, I call the plays Coach wanted. The man might be a complete trash of a person, but the asshat knows what he’s talking about on the field. By halftime, we’re up by seven, then quickly score another touchdown during our drive to start the third quarter.

Not that the Eagle’s defensive line has made it easy. I’m fucking exhausted, especially being out on the field more to extend the plays and drive down the clock. Because one of Coach’s main plans of attack was to hold on to the ball as much as possible, allowing the Eagles very little possession.Less opportunities of possession, less chances of points.The phrase was repeated enough by him that there’s no one on the team who shouldn’t know the intent of every play.

There’s less than five minutes remaining of the fourth quarter when offense is back on the field after the Eagles kicked a field goal to conclude their drive. We huddle, I call the play, we break and the offensive line sets.

Something’s different. I look at several sets of eyes fixed on me, all crouched close. My money’s on a blitz. They’re all headed my way. I know it before the ball hits my hands. So as soon as it touches my fingers, I start backing up, quickly looking for Becks. But it’s pointless, a defensive player gets through the right tackle and crashes into me. Before we hit the ground, another gets through, his helmet going into my knee as I plummet to the ground.

Fuck. Immediate pain radiates in my leg as I grip my knee, staying on the ground. I hear a whistle and the call of roughing the passer. But that doesn’t fix my fucking knee. One of the athletic trainers stoops next to me, asking me about the pain and if I can move it. I can. But it freaking hurts.

“I’m good.”

“No.” Coach is hovering over me. Giving instructions to his staff to help me off the field. “Bring him to the locker room and get his knee checked out. We need him more for playoffs than the last few minutes of this game.”

“I’m fine.” When I stand, though, I know he’s right.

“Get your ass off of the field, Crawford. Second string can hand off the ball a few times to run the clock down.”

I don’t argue, not that I could. I keep an arm slung over the supportive shoulder I’m offered and limp off the field. Son of a bitch. It doesn’t feel broken or anything. But it’s sore as hell.

Topher slaps me on the shoulder as he whispers, “I’ll get the punk-ass bitch back for you.”

Normally, I’d tell him the piece of shit isn’t worth it. But right now, I hope Topher lays the fucker out. It was an obvious cheap shot and they had one intention—to get me out of the game.

15

MORGAN

Motherfucker. That was a dirty hit, and I see the source of the strategy when Archbishop Mathis’s coach slaps his player on the ass before they take the field again. With the next snap, Topher goes helmet-first into the jackass. Another player, I think Becks, is on top of the other guy after sacking him. Of course the whistle is blown and now Saint Juliet has penalties called against us.

The opposing coach whines to the refs, as if his defensive players hadn’t just sidelined our QB. Of course they’re being retaliated against. And since the players have been handled enough by Cade’s teammates, that leaves the coach in need of payback. Good. I need a project. I tell myself the hit on Cade bothers me because I need Cade in the game to get back at Dad. That’s it. But even I know I’m lying to myself. I’m pissed they tried to hurt him. All over some stupid fucking game.