Monday, September 28th
Forrest POV

When I was in first grade, my teacher, Ms. Johnsen, let her class come to school on Halloween dressed up as what we wanted to be when we grew up.

Kids came into class decked out in doctor scrubs, or wearing glasses similar to our teacher, or layered up like a firefighter, or pointing at iron-on NASA badges. A few even dressed up like Spider-Man or Wonder Woman.

Me? I knew who I was from a young age. I showed up to school as a professional baseball player.

My first memories involve a fuzzy television and an old brown shag carpet as mom plopped me in front of the TV, turning on The Sandlot movie to keep me distracted as she stepped outside to smoke a cigarette or flirt with the mailman. As a kid who grew up in Fort Wayne, Indiana, I was obsessed with the idea of an endless summer where I could run outside at any time and meet up with my friends, playing baseball all day, every day. Instead, I got stuck with neighbors that were so old they wore Life Alert necklaces.

I guess I was a decent kid because my parents decided one was enough. I used every wish on every birthday cake for a sibling to play baseball with, but that wish was never granted.

Actually, I think it backfired, because mom was always too busy smoking Marlboro's or working to play ball with me, and dad was always working on base. The summer before second grade, I managed to hold his attention for seven solid minutes to throw a ball around until he had to go to bed to get up early for work.

I accepted my fate: I was destined to rest a baseball on a batting tee to swing at for the rest of my life. Maybe I could still get famous and play for the MLB if I worked hard enough on my own. I could learn to take the city bus and take myself to baseball practice.

That's until dad came home late one night with news so big, I walked away from the TV playing the World Series, where the Florida Marlins were wiping the floor with the New York Yankees.

We're moving to the Golden State! Dad had shouted with glee, picking up mom and spinning her around in the kitchen, the blonde hair she passed onto me catching the light. Right in San Francisco.

The months and years that followed were a blur. We crammed our entire life into our old Suburban and a rickety U-Haul truck. The army landed my dad a job in a new city, opening up more opportunities for mom.

Dad made more money. Mom was around the house more often. She planted a garden and opened the windows to let in the salty ocean air, even going as far as quitting the cigarettes.

I started at a new school, made friends my age, and joined a baseball team. No, I thrived on that baseball team, to the extent that now freshmen year has started, the traveling varsity coach personally reached out and asked me to join his team. That was one week ago.

As I walk into the cafeteria and look over the sea of faces, I feel like the same little boy who got thrown in front of the TV to be distracted from his sad reality: no friends, and no one who cares.

I chew on my cheek as I continue my awkward hike toward the back wall, away from the tables bustling with conversation and laughter. Everyone else is catching up with their friends, discussing classes and whatever is trending on social media and who is going to win the football game this weekend.

I should be in science class right now, texting my old teammates under the desk to ask what everyone's doing after school. Instead, I feel equally as exposed as I do ignored, walking past unfamiliar faces.

When the varsity coach, Billy Doyle, reached out and asked me to be the shortstop on his team, I nearly shit my pants. He warned me, explaining that accepting the position would mean a complete change—a change of my school schedule so I could make it to practices on time, a change of team that I spent my whole childhood growing up with, changing my availability. The team I was a part of only competed during the spring. Travel baseball competes and practices nearly the entire year, and they're in the thick of their autumn season.

I was so excited, so blinded with happiness to be the only freshman player they've let on the team in over ten years, that I agreed.

Reality is now knocking on the door as I realize what I've done: it's one month into the school year, and I feel like it's the first day all over again. I don't know anyone in this lunch group. Anyone.

My new varsity teammates are milling around somewhere, but I respect my dignity and ego too much to bounce between every table, searching for a familiar face. Every other guy is a sophomore, junior, or senior. I barely know the hallways of this high school, much less the names of the people on my team.

Embarrassment crawls down my spine like a spider, making me shiver as I duck my head and slide into an empty seat at a table in the back corner.

A girl with brown hair is seated a few chairs down, her knees tucked against her chest, hood drawn over her head. I don't know how she's not melting because the massive glass doors are wide open on the other side of the room, letting in the warmth and the sun. The heat might have her in a bad mood because she shoots a dark glare at me before returning her attention on her phone, stabbing her fork into her pasta.

I swallow hard, turning my attention down to the teriyaki chicken and rice on my tray. What was I thinking? I should've gotten the pasta. I use my fork to make tiny, neat, appetizing looking portions. If I'm nice about it, I could try talking the hooded girl into trading lunches to me.

"Hey, Forrest Adler! What the hell are you doing?"

I instinctively flinch at the usage of my full name, expecting my dad to materialize out of the shadows and scold me for hitting balls into the neighbors' pool.
No, not dad. Some older boy with dirty blond hair that I vaguely recognize. I blink at him as he walks over, stopping at the other side of the table.

He recognizes the confusion on my face and smirks knowingly. "Turner? Turner Wagner? Dude, I'm the left fielder on your team."

"Oh, my god," I blurt when the realization dawns on me. "That's right. I'm sorry, I totally spaced your name."

"You're good, bro. You've been under a lot of duress the last few weeks." Turner glances around the empty table, his gaze catching on the pasta girl. "What the fuck are you doing back here? Is this where you always disappear to?"

I blink again at his language. That's another change: all of these people in high school, especially the guys on my new team, curse like sailors.

"What do you mean? I'm trying to eat before class," I respond slowly, like it's not obvious.

Turner laughs and motions with his finger for me to get up. "Dude, you are a slippery little bugger. I've been trying to keep an eye out for you over the last week but I haven't been able to spot you. You are not going to spend every day back here, eating by yourself."

Pasta girl sends us another sharp look, as if she's offended that someone thinks eating by themselves is a bad thing. Or she wants us to shut up and go away. I grab my tray and stand up to give her the peace she desperately seems to want. "I haven't been able to find you guys, either. That's my bad."

"C'mon, you've got people to meet." Turner waves his hand, beckoning me before turning around and weaving his way through the tables. I grind my teeth nervously as I follow, keeping my eyes up, trying to act natural.

By now, everyone has found their seats. Him and I are basically the only two people moving in the room, and for some reason it feels like a crime to be moving tables.

In the center of the lunchroom, there are a few long, rectangular lunch tables that are pushed together to make really massive tables. When I was finishing my last year in middle school, there were plenty of rumors that started right in this section.

Relationships have started and ended here. College decisions were made. Now-famous actors and athletes used to spend their school years in these same seats. Anyone who would ever become something gets a spot over here.

I should be excited. My old teammates would die if they knew I was about to be elbow to elbow with some of the biggest names that are currently in the school district. Instead, I feel like I'm about to crumple under the pressure.

"Here, we saved you a spot," Turner says as we approach the table in the center of the room, pointing at two empty seats. I glance at the people who are already sitting, chattering and laughing, and my stomach immediately begins to do somersaults.

There's Joel Martin, the senior quarterback on the varsity football team. Over the next few weeks, his face will be plastered all over newspapers as the football season continues to gain momentum.

I recognize two guys on my new team: Colton with his straight black hair and Logan with the tattoos. There's Brea, the sophomore cheerleader, seated next to two new freshmen cheerleaders. Those two girls were in my old science class, before my schedule switched. Hannah and Ali.

My attention lands on another girl who is seated across the table from my saved spot, and I feel like the floor has disappeared from underneath me and I'm freefalling out of an airplane. I've never spoken a goddamn word to her, but I'd recognize her anywhere.

Rose. Oh, god.

She's the only good thing that's come out of this schedule change. She is in my new science class, just a few rows up from my desk. Her dark brown hair glows red when the sunlight hits it. The sun must kiss her flawless skin every day because she's always the only girl in the room with a natural tan. Her dark eyelashes frame her mahogany eyes... I only know they're mahogany because I stalked her Instagram the first day I got home after my schedule change.

I always pay attention when she speaks in class because she's soft spoken, but smart, but funny, but so good with words.

And now I need to eat chicken and rice less than five feet away from her face.

Suddenly, I wish that mom would've left on Marvel movies when I was a toddler, or even Dora the Explorer for all I care. Anything so I wouldn't be interested in baseball, which has snowballed right into this choice: either sit across from Rose and choke down rice for the next thirty minutes, or drop my lunch tray onto the ground and run screaming out of the cafeteria. Maybe a third option will happen and I'll just die.

Oblivious to the fact that I'm literally stunned into silence from Rose's presence, Turner grabs my shoulders and gives them a shake. He almost makes my decision for me. If I wasn't white-knuckling this tray, I'd be wearing my lunch.

"Everyone, your attention please!" Turner exclaims, and our side of the table goes quiet. "This is my friend, and newest teammate, Forrest Adler. He's the freshman that Coach Doyle handpicked a few weeks ago, that shortstop. Damn good one at that." He beams. "Let's be nice to him now. Griffin, I'm talking to you."

Not Griffin Miller. Now I really wish I'd drop dead.

He was something like an old wives tale back in middle school. San Francisco is a big city, and these class sizes are no different. I never saw him or knew him personally, but I have definitely heard of him—as have a few police stations in the area.

Griffin is notorious for trouble, and rumor has it that his dad, who happens to coach the varsity football team, slipped him onto the varsity football team this year to keep a close eye on him and keep him out of trouble.

The worst part? He's two seats down from me. I don't even need to see his face, it's the big middle finger he gives Turner that gives him away. He isn't bothered enough to turn around and look at me.

"Good to see you, man," Colton, my teammate, says as I set my tray down on the table. I hope he doesn't see my shaking hands. I hide my nerves with a smile.

"You too," I say and wait for Turner to sit before taking the spot next to him. My knees practically clack together as Rose regards me quietly, the blonde friend beside her chatting away.

"You know Colton and Logan already," Turner says, pointing at the two boys. "The rest of our team is sitting on the other end of the lunch table today. This here is Joel, the varsity quarterback."

"Nice to meet you. Forrest, was it?" Joel asks, leaning over the table to offer his hand. He has shaggy russet hair, a square jaw, and a firm handshake.

"You got it. Nice to meet you," I echo him, trying to play it cool. I'm acutely aware of Roses eyes—god they're so beautiful in person—following my movements.

"Forrest?" The blonde girl seated next to Rose chirps. "That's different. I've never heard of that name before. I'm Hannah."

"Was Woods and Oak already taken?" A gruff voice mutters two chairs down. Considering the way the hair on the back of my neck stands like I'm in the presence of a bear, I know that's Griffin speaking.

The dark-haired boy seated next to me sends a cold glare at his friend. "Griffin, for the love of god, shut up." He then regards me wearily. Not necessarily unfriendly, just observant. "I'm Parker. It's nice to meet you. Cool that you got the attention of your coach, you must be pretty good."

"It helps that I've worked hard to get where I'm at," I say with a small chuckle. This guy, Parker, also looks familiar. I can't place where I know him from.

"We all have," Griffin pipes up again. He leans forward to grab his vitamin water, dark hair falling over his eyes as he scans me like a threat. I used to laugh at the rumors that spread about him. Now, I believe every single one. I think I'm five seconds away from being another name on his attack record. I'm trying to play it cool, but he has me worried that I already said the wrong thing five seconds into meeting new people.

"Oh, ignore him," Rose finally speaks, reaching toward me to rest her palm on the table. This is my excuse to look at her. I see her mouth moving, but I hardly hear the words. "He talks a lot of game for having a dad that ushered him onto the varsity team this year."

I almost smile and nod. Yes, yes, anything you say. I believe you.

Griffin saves me from the embarrassment. He kicks Rose under the table. "You talk a lot of shit for someone who sits around every day, knitting scarves and propagating plants. You wouldn't last five fuckin' minutes on any field."

"I might not be able to tackle a guy or hit a home run, but at least I could run a 5K without breaking a sweat before I tore my ACL. Dad always complains about how you boys need more cardio," Rose shoots back.

I watch their argument like a tennis match, until Rose says that word that lights a bulb in my brain. Dad.

I rewind to last week, scrolling through her profile. Her  username. Rose Miller. Griffin Miller. I scan the two of them since they're nearly side-by-side. There's not a ton of similarities, but I still note them: The sharp facial structures, strong noses, dark eyes. Why wouldn't she post about having a brother online?

I don't know whether to be relieved that this guy, who is so comfortable with her, isn't actually her boyfriend, or if I should be more worried considering this is her brother. Instead, I decide to not think about it, and poke at my rice.

"Trust me, Greyson has us doing plenty of cardio," Joel says. He turns to speak to me and Turner. "This year, he implemented a rule for each position. If we can't run underneath the time limit he set for us, then we join one practice a week with the track and field team. It's absolutely ridiculous."

Turner raises his eyebrows. "For real? Who pissed him off enough to do that?"

"Archer," Parker says, picking the sticker off his pear. "During the first game of the season, Archer caught the first throw. He just wasn't fast enough to carry it into the end zone when he had a massive opening."

"I think it's the best decision dad has made in a long time," Griffin counters. "Let's get some of those lazy bastards off their feet and moving a little bit. Have you guys seen Thomas lately? Instead of using his days off in the gym, he uses his free time to sit in the Taco Bell drive through."

"Not everyone can run like you and Parker," Hannah becomes brave enough to speak, tilting her head at Griffin. "Isn't Thomas a linebacker? Aren't they supposed to be big?"

He looks up and scowls at her. "Who asked you? You don't even play a fucking sport. What are you doing here?"

I decide to look away from the train wreck that's happening, turning to Parker instead. He's also blissfully ignorant of the friend beside him.

"How long have you been on the football team?" I ask him, gathering whatever information I know from this conversation.

Parker glances up, mid-chew. He swallows before speaking. "Well, I've been playing football ever since I could walk. I've only been on the varsity team for a few weeks."

"Sophomore, then?" I take a shot in the dark. Freshmen almost never get on the varsity sports teams around here, unless it's a case like me or Griffin.

Parker shakes his head. "No, you and I are in the same grade, and we have similar stories, actually. Greyson knew he wanted me on his team when I was still in middle school."

"Wow," I say with a nod, impressed, and still acutely aware that Rose is listening to our conversation.

"Don't act surprised, Woods," Griffin says, pointing a finger at Parker. "He gets the special family treatment. Cousins receive a free pass onto the varsity team."

My eye twitches at the nickname. Lord help me. I hope that it doesn't follow me through my high school career.

"Don't act like Parker isn't the next big thing," Joel says with a loud laugh. "If I weren't already starting, we all know Greyson would let him take my place in a heartbeat. Mark my words, because Parker Graham is going to leave this school as one of the most famous quarterbacks of all time."

A blush begins to creep over Parker's face. He quickly looks away while muttering something about letting the topic go under his breath.

"Speaking of quarterbacks, we could use you two this weekend," Turner says, leaning around me to regard the other two boys. "It's capture the flag night, boys! Let this year's homecoming season commence! Will you be there?"

"Planning on it," Parker says, his cheeks cooling off now that he's not under a microscope. Griffin nods, his mouth full.

"And you?" Turner faces to me, his eyes gleaming.

I tap my fork nervously against my tray. "I thought these party weekends were for the seniors?"

"No way," Rose chimes in, a smile playing on her lips. "If you're invited, you have to come."

The decision has been made. I spin in my seat to look at Turner. "I'll be there."

********
Your honor, I love them! <3

I had no idea how much I missed writing with these characters in this world, but I am not joking when I say it feels like coming home! My readers that came from ROTG will know how much fun the capture the flag and homecoming party season holds, and the new readers will find out really quickly!

Regardless, I am SO happy to be back with this prequel. I meant to publish this chapter yesterday as a little teaser of what's to come with the new year, but better late than never. Keep an eye out, because the best has yet to come...