Saturday, October 3rd
Forrest POV

The most irrational thing I've ever done was trust my older cousin, Benji, with my birthday money in middle school.

My dad's brother, his wife, and their kids were visiting for the weekend. We were eating dinner at my favorite sports restaurant in San Francisco, The Lookout.

I loved to go there with my dad to watch the L.A. Dodgers whenever he could step away from work, which wasn't often. On my twelfth birthday, he took the day off to be with us. I was sitting at the high top table, feeling like the luckiest boy in the world to watch my idol, Mookie Betts, live on any one of the five Jumbotron-sized screens that were hung on the restaurant walls. No matter where someone looked that night, there was Mookie in all of his glory.

At one point, my dad and uncle stepped outside for a post-dinner cigarette. The ladies were huddled on the other side of the table, scraping their plates clean and laughing at the latest drama stirring up in my younger cousins life.

Benji leaned down and tapped his fingers near the dollar bills that were resting on the birthday card his parents just gave me. Have you ever bet on the Dodgers before? No, like a real bet. They have machines here that will take your money, and if the Dodgers win, you could earn back twice that amount. Do you want to do it? I have to bet the money for you, though. Because you're not old enough.

Looking back, I'm pretty sure my twenty-two year old cousin stole fifty dollars from me. I never did get my money back. Unfortunately, the Dodgers lost on my birthday, so maybe I actually did place a faulty bet. It's hard to say.

The second most irrational thing I've ever done is trust Turner with my life.

Yesterday during lunch, we made the plans for him to pick me up and drive to Earhart Park together. He cracked a joke about getting his license a few weeks ago and I laughed it off, not knowing if he was serious, and not wanting to offend my new teammate.

Tonight, as he blows a four-way stop sign and nearly gets the passenger side of his car T-boned, I'm not laughing. My knuckles are white as I grip the cloth seat.

"Heads up on your side!" Turner whoops, his sentence punctuated with a loud, angry honk from the other driver.

I swallow down bile and focus on the park sign a few hundred yards ahead. My oasis. I've never been so relieved to see a parking lot before. He shoots the car up the hill, into the lot. The top of my head brushes the ceiling, the back tires getting air as he flies over a bump. My fingernails tear holes into the seat as he drifts into an empty spot and slams on the brakes.

The bones in my fingers crack as I force them to loosen up and let go. I manage to choke out, "Alright, well, thanks for the ride." And not killing me on the way.

"Anytime, dude!" Turner unbuckles and opens his door, waving his car keys at me as I scramble out. "I remember being a freshman with no license. Man, that sucked so much ass. I asked Colton and Daniel and Jake to help a brother out, but they were always too busy. Now, I try to do for others what others wouldn't do for me. It's good karma."

"Right," I reply passively as we walk up the hill, toward the football field. From what I gathered over the week, Rose is supposed to be here. I've overheard her conversations during science class and lunch. Yesterday afternoon she was talking about the new shirt she was going to wear.

All I see are upperclassmen students that I haven't seen since we were all in middle school together. Truth be told, I don't recognize a soul.

Everyone has hit puberty, or tanning beds, or the gym, or steroids during the one year I spent away from them in eighth grade. Despite having watched the life flash before my eyes several times on the way here, I'm grateful for Turner's presence—at least I'm not braving this crowd alone.

We stop twice on the way to the field: the first time for Turner to grab a hard seltzer from the back of Joel's truck, and the second time for him to stop and flirt with the two new cheerleaders, Hannah and Ali. I leave him behind to quote Wuthering Heights and flex his muscles through his black t-shirt. At this point, I'd rather mingle with strangers than hear the words whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same come out of his mouth.

The sun is starting to sink over the ocean, splashing baby pinks and soft purples across the clouds. Girls are flocking at the top of the hill to take advantage of the last bit of natural light, posing in front of cameras with their friends.

Most of the guys are oblivious to the beautiful sunset. A few of them are spray painting the grass with washable paint, creating boundary lines. Another handful are starting to collect underneath the nearest goalpost, waving their hands vigorously as they talk. More are arriving by the minute, getting hung up in the parking lot as they grab drinks and catch up with their friends.

I scratch behind my neck as I check out the scene, trying to figure out where I'd be the most useful. That's been the hardest part about this transition to high school: I have no idea where I belong anymore. Add my new varsity status and a complete schedule change to the equation, and the result is that I would feel more at home in a foreign country.

Someone—no, Parker—steps up alongside me. I've spent enough time at the athlete's table this week to recognize him. He crosses his arms, glancing at me before watching the field. "Hey, Forrest. Good to see you, I wasn't sure if you were joking about being here or not."

"From what it sounded like, I didn't have a choice," I say with a small laugh and cast my eyes over his shoulder. No sign of Rose. I finish my thought to say, "I'm starting to catch on that if someone tells me to do something, I better do it."

"That sounds like a recipe for disaster. Who's making you do what?" Parker asks, turning to me.

"No, I mean, my team mates," I stutter as I explain myself. "I've barely been on this new team for two weeks and whatever they say might as well be coming straight from the Pope. Someone tells me to lift weights after practice? I'm doing it. Eat clean during game season? Done. Get told I better come play capture the flag? Someone needs to come pick my ass up, and I'll be there."

"Welcome to varsity." Parker snorts and runs a hand over his wavy black hair, slicking it back. "Don't worry, you'll learn to know who to listen too, who to tune out. Speaking from experience, you can ignore just about anyone on the team. Your coach is the only who has the final say, even if that means running a mile every morning."

I quirk an eyebrow. "You guys seriously do that?"

Parker's mouth falls in a hard line. "Count yourself lucky, and stay in baseball."

"Trust me, all that I've heard during lunch this week is how much everyone fears Mr. Miller. This is the closest you'll ever find me near a football field," I reply, motioning at the field in front of us.

"Greyson means well," Parker says. "He just wants us all at the top of our game. It's for our own good. I'm happy to give up an hour of sleep every morning if it means I get a full-ride scholarship to a D1 school one day."

I feel like I'm listening to myself speak, which makes me smile. It's nice to know someone my age who's as passionate about their sport as I am. My phone buzzes a moment later, and I scowl as I slip it out of my pocket and glance at the screen. Speak of the devil, my coach Mr. Doyle put myself and seventeen other unknown numbers—my team, I'm assuming—into a group chat.

"What about scholarships? Did a school reach out?"

I barely open the message before I'm closing right back out of it, nearly dropping my phone in my haste to put it away. I'm not about to give Rose the impression that I'm just another guy that's addicted to his phone. I'm normal. I can hold a normal conversation, no problem.

That's until I see Rose and every word that I've learned suddenly evaporates from the left hemisphere of my brain.

What's left of the sun illuminates her skin. Her dark red hair is piled high in the most perfectly elaborate messy bun that I've ever seen, long tendrils framing her face. She's rocking the new top she was talking about, a cream crochet... what was the word she used? Halter top?

I don't know. I can't remember. All I can think about is how lucky I am to be in her presence. Somehow, she just glows.

"... and that's only if your dad stops breathing down my neck. Forrest, were you planning on playing tonight?" Parker regards me as he changes the subject.

Rose turns to me, a soft smile playing on her face. "Gosh, both of you guys are joining the battlefield?"

"Yes," I blurt. I was hoping to sit on the sidelines and watch the first few rounds, and I haven't handled a football in over five years, but a baseball can't be that different. Right? I can't turn down this opportunity. Not with Rose here. "I'm playing."

Wait. Battlefield?

Rose shakes her finger at the two of us and scolds, "Well, you guys better be careful. Parker, you remember how mad my dad got two years ago when Max and Ryan had to go to the hospital. Forrest, I don't want to see you hurt, either."

My heart swells, immediately bypassing the whole hospital thing. She remembered my name?

"I'll watch my back just for you," Parker says and begins to walk away. "Keep 911 on speed dial just in case, alright?"

"Not funny!" Rose replies.

Parker laughs and looks at me over his shoulder. "C'mon, we need to go figure out what teams we're on."

I glance at Rose, torn between taking this opportunity to sit with her or going to play with the rest of the guys, where I'm sure she'll be watching. Parker's words spur me on and I trail after him.

"Were we supposed to know what teams were on before arriving? I don't know what's going on," I reply honestly as I size up the crowd we're approaching. That handful of people from earlier has nearly quadrupled in size.

"We'll get our teams in a minute," Parker explains, pausing for a moment to bump knuckles with another blond boy like me that jogs past. "Usually two juniors or seniors are the captains. We will stand in a group, and they'll pick a person, one at a time. It looks like Archer and Joshua already set out the footballs."

Him and I slow down as he points at the field. "Those spray painted lines are our boundaries. The footballs are in the painted circles on each end, and those are going to be the flag. Two guys guard their team's flag, but they can't get too close to the line. If you get tagged by someone off the other team, you have to sit down to show that you're out. Otherwise there's no other rules. You can throw the ball to someone else on your team, tackle or be tackled. The guys on the ground can trip you, as long as they keep their ass on the grass. It's crazy, but it'll be fun."

"Hot damn," I say with a laugh. "No wonder people have gone to the hospital before."

Parker waves his hand. "Don't let Rose scare you. I hate to say it, but those two guys had it coming. I can't imagine you'll be roughhousing like that."

"Were you guys here when it happened?"

"Yeah, there were a few broken wrists and rolled ankles. A little blood. They're fine now."

My eyebrows draw in as I piece together the timeline and say, "You guys were in middle school. I thought this event was just for the high schoolers."

"It is, as long as you're invited." Parker shrugs. "Perks of being related to the varsity football coach, I guess. Griffin, Rose, and I used to spend so much time on the sidelines with Greyson that we already were kind of a part of the team. One of the seniors at the time picked us up and brought us here so we could referee the game."

"Wow. Free child labor."

Parker laughs. "Whatever you want to call it, I guess so."

The lights on the field start to flicker on one by one, casting long shadows over the grass. I walk over a large clump of shadows thrown by all of the bodies as we approach, guys weaving together as everyone situates themselves in a half moon shape.

I finally spot a few more familiar faces, now that I'm closer. There's Colton, recognizable by his high cheekbones and ink-black hair. Logan, as always, looks like he stepped off the cover of a boy band album cover thanks to his long curly brown hair and patchwork tattoos littering his arms. I don't know where he got them at, since we have to be eighteen to get tatted here.

Turner must've walked away from the girls, or maybe they walked away from him. Whatever the case, I see him slipping next to Colton and joining their conversation, his dirty blond hair already slick with sweat.

Joel, the starting quarterback on the football team, is standing in front of everyone, his square jaw set tersely as he scans our faces. Archer is standing next to him, and he holds up an air horn, giving it a short blast. That gets everyone's attention. All of the conversation immediately dies.

"Welcome to the fifth annual capture the flag night!" Joel says, raising his voice to be heard over the field. People hoot and holler, clapping their hands. Archer raises his air horn and gives it another toot, promptly regaining silence, even as an excited tremor stays wired in the air. "There's only three rules: guards can't be within six feet of their flag, tagged people have to sit right where they're touched, and stay within the boundary. We've got some lovely ladies here to be our refs tonight."

Joel waves at the cheerleaders, who grin and wave back at him like contestants at a beauty pageant. A few boys in the crowd clap and wolf whistle.

Brea, Hannah, and Ali stand near the front. All three girls are the only ones who aren't enraptured by the star quarterback. They're all looking in my—no, Parker's direction.

I bite my cheek to keep from smirking. I don't know if Parker is oblivious or what, but he may as well have blinders on for all of the attention he gives them. He continues to watch Joel, waiting for directions.

My attention slips past the rest of the cheerleaders, landing on Rose, who's standing near the parking lot. She's talking to a boy that I don't recognize with thick black waves of hair, solid shoulders, and deep brown skin. I can't read her lips from here, but whatever she's saying is making him laugh. I get a kink in my neck from going so tense, so fast. My face burns with shame as I look away.

"I'll be the captain of Team A," Joel says, flourishing his hands like a ring master. "Who wants to lead Team B?"

"I'll do it," two boys say in unison.

Archer's head snaps to the crowd, searching to see who dares stand up to him.

There's only one kid who's brave enough, stubborn enough, and stupid enough to do so. Griffin. He practically saunters out of the shadows with the confidence of a man who already knows he got his way, his dark eyes glittering.

"You've got to be kidding me," Parker grumbles. The comment is probably meant for his ears only, but it makes me snort.

Archer rolls his eyes and says, "Griffin, dude. Out of all people you should know that freshmen can't captain this game."

"Says who? Did someone tell you that dropping the football during a game would mean putting a target on everyone's back for the rest of the season, or was that also a choice you made for the sake of pissing people off?"

"That was unintentional," Archer snaps, his eyes narrowing, "and you know it."

"All I hear is you telling me that I know a lot," Griffin fires back, stepping up to the senior boy. "Which I do, actually. You know who my dad is."

"That means nothing here, Miller," Joel says sharply in an attempt to regain control of the situation. "Relax. It's just a stupid game."

Griffin is on a roll, and he ignores Joel, keeping all of his focus on Archer. I don't know how he does it, but he makes the tall blond boy squirm. Even I'm feeling itchy just watching. "That's what Archer will be saying a year from now, sitting in the bleachers of whatever washed up community college he ends up at: just a stupid game. From what I've heard, my dad doesn't think you'd be useful enough to warm the bench on an intramural football team. Know your place. Dude."

The way Griffin throws that last word back at Archer makes my eyes widen. I glance around to make sure I wasn't the only one who heard that conversation. Most of the guys are mumbling quietly or hiding their chuckles, trying not to feed into the drama. I catch the same buff kid that was flirting with Rose a few minutes ago weaving through the crowd, making a beeline in my direction. My gut sinks as he comes to a stop behind Parker and I.

"What's Griffin got his panties in a wad about this time?" Mystery guy asks, his dark eyes scanning the scene.

"Being captain. He's just throwing his weight around. Again." Parker shrugs.

"One of these days, he's going to get his ass kicked."

"I don't know," Parker says, eyeing his cousin. "Unfortunately, he would fight back."

Archer takes a step back, looking as hurt as a kicked puppy. If it were anyone else, he'd probably call their bluff. It's much harder to talk shit to the coaches son. Instead, he hisses, "You're such a dick!"

"At least I won't look back in ten years, realizing that high school football was the height of my career. I'll wave at you when I'm on TV."

"Are we done here?" Joel asks through gritted teeth, stepping between the two boys. "I'll ask one more time: who's leading team B?"

"I am," Griffin says, casually slipping his hands in his pockets as he tilts his head at Archer, a silent test.

Archer learned his lesson because he doesn't take the bait. He curses and steps away, his cheeks red with embarrassment as he leaves Griffin in the spotlight. I can't believe that these guys are just letting him get away with bullying someone—his team mate, at that. But I also can't say that I don't understand. There's not a single muscle in my body that's willing to stand up to him.

"Fucking Griffin," mystery guy behind us mutters as Joel and Griffin begin to choose their team, one guy at a time. "I thought that someone would put him in his place when he got on varsity, not the other way around."

"You spend enough time with us. You know how he is," Parker says, the corner of his mouth turning up as he looks at me. "Kendric, have you met Forrest?"

"I don't think so. Nice to meet you, man," Kendric says cheerfully, sticking his hand out. I'd be cheerful if Rose made me laugh, too.

I paste on a smile and shake his hand. "You too. How do you guys know each other?" I try to ask casually, but I might as well have asked the real question on my mind: how long have you been dating in the family, huh? Who do you think you are?

"We've always been on the same football team. Up until this year, that is. This lucky bastard and Griffin left the rest of us in the dust on the JV football team while they're playing with the big dogs." Kendric shoves Parker's shoulder like a brother. "Little prick. We'll share the same field next year."

Parker smiles, shuffling away from his friend. "You know it. Greyson's probably already got you written in his roster."

Kendric smiles, and our conversation gets cut short as Joel says, "Graham, I'll take you on my team."

"Later boys," Parker says, giving us a small wave. "And Forrest, good luck."

"Thanks," I mutter and watch him jog over to the small group that's building behind Joel. Griffin watches, his eyes sharp as he regards Kendric and I. Something about the way he looks at me makes me feel like I'm being put on fire. Thankfully, he chooses Kendric. A fraction of a smile tilts on Griffin's face when Kendric bounds over, giving him a high five. My gut pulls again. I miss my old teammates, my friends, but not a single one is here.

Joel seems to notice that I'm standing awkwardly off to the side all by myself, and he motions at me. "Adler, right? Get over here."

"That's what's up," Parker says with a grin, holding his fist out to me as I join their group. Relief makes my smile come easier this time. Maybe I do have a few friends here tonight.

The two captains divvy up who is left, then we go our separate ways. Joel leads us down the field to the furthest football, barking at us and breaking us up into sections: guards, offense, and defense.

Our two guards jog down to their station, leaving the rest of us to follow Joel's directions and find our spot on the field. I'm grateful to be on the offense, because looking at Griffin's team, there's no way I could take any of those guys down. I launch myself at bases for fun, not two-hundred pound men.

The field settles into position. My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I almost miss Brea blowing the air horn on the sideline, starting the game.

I've seen a fair share of wild baseball games in my life, and I have even played in a few. Having a sharp, exact eye is a necessity, especially when a baseball is being thrown around at upwards of 80-mph. I've caught guys faking out in the middle of a field. But nothing compares to the chaos that erupts now. Rose was right: it's a battlefield.

I do my best to heed Joel's parting words to me as we all walked off with our section. He told me to watch my back, not get tagged, and keep an eye out for Parker. If Parker gets the ball, just open my hands and trust.

First, I need to watch my goddamn back. The thing is, I don't remember who is on what team. I don't check to see if Rose is watching, but if she is, she probably thinks I'm a fucking lunatic because I'm dodging every person that comes within five feet of me.

A lifetime spent on the baseball field has made me agile and granted me quick reflexes, making it possible to weave around every oncoming person and those who are starting to get tagged out.

I scan the field and nearly laugh when I see that Parker is already slipping behind Griffin's guards, a few other guys on our team keeping them distracted. I've never seen him play football before, and I've wondered once or twice how this quiet, wiry kid found himself on the varsity team.

I immediately eat my words as I watch Parker snag the ball off the ground, racing off like a shot. The opposing team notices and begins to shout. If Parker doesn't act fast, the damn kid is going to get decapitated with the speed and force that Griffin's team begins to rain down on him.

Parker survey's the field, his eyes locking onto me. Then, he does the impossible. While in a full run, he lifts his arm, calculates the distance, and absolutely shanks the football.

The ball leaves his hand over on the ten yard line. I'm roughly on the opposite forty yard line, putting fifty yards between us, yet he somehow manages to throw a perfect spiral. I do as I was told, open my hands, and trust.

Sure as shit, the football hits my hands.

Screams and shouts erupt over the field. It sounds a lot like, the new blond kid has the ball! Get him!

I thought Rose's story about the hospital was a joke, but after the last minute I've spent on the field, I don't think it is anymore. That's why I turn tail and run like my feet are on fire. I don't feel like getting tackled and breaking a leg today, not before I've played in my first high school baseball game.

More kids have gotten tagged out, and I dodge them like a minefield. I spot someone in the corner of my eye and try to run faster, but I relax when I realize it's just Archer. He's on my team, and from his body language, I can tell he's protecting me.

Just as I start to think I've got this game in the bag, I notice someone else streaking up on Archer's offside. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my worst suspicion: Griffin. I don't know what position he plays or what kind of magic athletic shit runs in that family's genes, but it looks like Griffin's feet aren't even touching the ground. He's fast as fuck, there's no other way to put it.

I grit my teeth and pray that someone will tag him out, but he's catty... and closing in. Fast.

"Go, Adler! I've got him!" Archer shouts, sidling closer to me. Griffin, that bastard, laughs.

It's a three horse race, and we're all nose-to-nose. Archer swats at Griffin and even tries to stick his leg out to trip him. Griffin retaliates by putting his hands on Archer and shoving him with so much force that he goes flying to the ground. I feel the earth shake under my feet, and then I feel poor Archer's body under my feet.

I trip over his body and instinctively tuck the ball against my side, bracing for impact. I grunt as I fall just as hard, the speed and intensity of my sprint causing me to skid across the ground. Pain flares under my right knee, causing white spots to flash over my vision. Maybe if I realized I was going to be absolutely bodied into the ground, I would've wrapped my legs. But I didn't know, so my shins receive the brunt of it.

"Men down! Hold up!" Joel yells. In the distance, Brea toots the air horn in short bursts, pausing the game.

Archer is groaning somewhere behind me. My arms tremble as I sit up and finally let go of the football. I wince as I look at my right arm. From my wrist to my elbow, I'm skinned from the grass burn.

"Archer, bro, are you good?" Joel asks, shaking the shoulder of his friend.

Archer nods and coughs, shooting a cold glare at Griffin.

"I'm. Fine," he wheezes in short bursts. "Breath. Knocked. Out."

"Hang on, breathe. You're alright." Joel slaps his back and moves over to me, worry painted on his face as he kneels down. "Jesus, Forrest. We need you as a receiver. Are you okay? Did anything break? That was a hell of a hit."

I shake my head and paw the football toward his feet. "No, I'm fine. Just took a little skin off. I might sit out for the next one."

"Damn right you are," Joel agrees and offers me his hand. I take it and shakily get to my feet, the flaring pain in my knee turning into a blaze. I hiss through gritted teeth and look down. My right knee is coated in blood, and now that I'm standing, it begins to run in rivers down my leg.

"Griffin Reed Miller!" I recognize the voice as Rose, but I need to do a double-take when I catch her shouting. She flies across the field, shoving her brother with both hands. Fury ignites his face, but he takes the hit. If it were anyone else, I'm sure she'd be flat on the ground with a broken jaw. "Who do you think you are, you insensitive freak! Are you trying to clear the roster of every single sports team? What is your problem?"

"You know the rules, Roselyn!" Griffin yells in response, smacking her hands away. "No one said anything about roughhousing. They had the ball, and I took them down!"

"Well, you didn't need to do it like that!" Rose puts a finger in his face, seething. "You're such an idiot!"

"And you're a bitch!" Griffin fires back. It doesn't matter, she's already turned away and is stomping toward me. I don't know whether to be mesmerized or fear for my life.

Parker is jogging over, but he slows to a stop when Rose swoops in. He scowls as he eyes my leg but doesn't say anything. Instead, he casts an angry look at his cousin and starts to approach him. He doesn't say a word and Griffin is already giving him the middle finger as he turns away. I let them have their tantrum, turning to Rose, instead.

The pain doesn't reverberate as bad with her right here. I put on a smile that's reserved just for her. "What's that you said earlier about calling 911?"

"I tried to warn you," Rose responds, speaking to me much kinder than her brother. She nods at Joel. "I've got him. You guys can keep playing."

"Thanks, Rose," Joel says and tilts his head up at me before walking away, probably to go chew out Griffin's ass.

"Thanks, Rose," I echo him, accepting her hand when she offers it. Sparks shoot up and down my arm, giving me a small relief from the pain.

"It's not a problem, you don't have to thank me. I'm just glad that you're okay." She scowls, her hand tightening around mine. "Griffin is just such a... a... rat! He never thinks before he acts. I'm so sorry that you got the short end of the stick."

Another smile pulls at my lips with her use of language—or lack thereof. I reply, "It's okay. Seriously. Only a little skin got taken off."

"And a pint of blood!" Rose huffs. She smells like berries and jasmine and musky amber. Just the scent of her is an antidote. I recall the boy she was with earlier, and guilt immediately grabs me by the neck.

"I'll apologize to your boyfriend later," I say, putting my weight on her with every other step. My right shin is still burning, making it impossible to walk on.

Rose laughs, and I can finally look at her as she helps me sit on the open tailgate of someone's truck who is parked next to the field. "What are you talking about? I don't have a boyfriend."

I blink, partly to clear away the embarrassment, and partly to keep from showing my relief. "What? Kendric—"

"Oh." Rose laughs again and waves her hands. "Oh, no. Never in a million years. Don't worry, Forrest. I'm as single as a Pringle. The only person who should be apologizing around here is Griffin."

She speaks a big game, but I don't miss the way her cheeks go pink and she suddenly starts inspecting the cut on my leg. The relief in my chest doesn't last long, and I frown. If not Kendric, she definitely has a crush on somebody.

I don't get the chance to keep pushing. Something about the pain is making me brave, like I want to ask about all of her deepest, darkest secrets to think about anything except how bad the pain is.

Rose saves me the embarrassment by pointing down the row of vehicles. "Stay right here. I'm going to grab a few things."

"Okay. Thanks," I reply and watch her hurry away. I chew my cheek as I watch the field. My injury has been forgotten, and everyone is back in action.

Rose hurries back over. Paper towels, water bottles, a piece of twine, and a hamburger sitting on a plate are balanced in her hands.

"Jesus. Let me help you," I say and lean forward, grabbing the plate and a few water bottles out of her hands. "Where did you find all of this?"

Rose glances at me and beams. The glow of it nearly sweeps me off my feet. Metaphorically, since I'm still sitting on the tailgate.

"By the grill. Someone always cooks before the game. Can I take your shoe off?"

"My shoe?" I scrunch my nose. "If you smell my foot, you'll probably never speak to me again."

She laughs again, stealing the breath from my lungs. "Trust me, Forrest. I've spent my entire life around football players in some capacity. The least I'm worried about is your foot."

I smile at her and swing my other leg. "Then you better worry about your new shirt."

"It'll be fine. I'm a girl, I know how to clean blood out of clothing. Let's get you cleaned up," she says brightly and unties my sneaker, putting one hand on the back of my heel to keep my foot steady as she slips my shoe off.

Before I can argue, she's taking my sock off, too. I don't even get the chance to warn her. Unphased, she glances at the burger. "I brought that for you, by the way. You need to eat something. Sorry I didn't put anything on it, I don't know how you like your burgers."

"Please don't apologize. You're kind enough to be helping me. I don't expect you to read my mind and put my burger together animal style," I joke, throwing in an In-N-Out reference as I scoot the plate closer and grab the burger, taking a bite. God, is it too early to say I love you?

Those words leave my head the moment she pours ice cold water over my leg. I nearly choke, hissing in pain as she cracks open another bottle. She looks up at me, eyes wide. "I'm so sorry. Did that hurt? I need to wash away the blood."

"No, you're good. It felt good," I lie through my teeth.

Rose quirks her lips and searches my eyes for a moment. "You're a terrible liar."

"And I'm eternally grateful for your help, but I don't want to scare you away. Was I lying just now?"

She grins. "No. You're funny." Then, she dumps another bottle over my wound. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray that I won't pass out in front of her.

"Okay, that's done. I'm going to dab your wound with a paper towel," Rose says as she peels a few pieces off the roll, using them to dry my foot. I'm going to owe her for eternity.

Nodding, I return to my burger. She knows me better than I know myself: I am starving.

Comfortable silence settles for a moment, only broken by my chewing.

She glances up at me again, those sweet brown eyes filled with curiosity. "I've got to ask, why did you play?"

I swallow before responding. "What do you mean?"

Rose shrugs and presses another paper towel against my wound, reducing it to a sharp sting. "Like I said, you're an awful liar."

"Right," I reply with a chuckle and push the empty plate out of the way before leaning forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. "Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game."

"What?" Rose asks as she leans on the tailgate. I reach down, resting my hand along hers as I grab the paper towel to hold it in place for myself. She gets the hint and begrudgingly lets go.

"It's something my mom always says. A quote from her favorite movie." I pause to watch one of the people on the field throw one of the balls. "Just because I felt scared doesn't mean I should've sat out. I haven't touched a football in years, but it was worth the risk to make a few new friends."

"Hm," Rose hums and acknowledges me. "I like that. That's a good quote." She looks at me for another long moment, long enough to pull a blush over my cheeks. She straightens up a moment later, smiling. "Hey, if you didn't strike out, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Friends, right?"

I grin at her, taking in her messy red hair, her brown eyes, the light dusting of freckles over her nose. God, I hope that one day I can memorize the placement of every single one.

Instead of telling her that, I stick out my fist. "Friends. Nice to meet your acquaintance, Rose Miller."

She laughs and obliges with a fist bump. "You're interesting, Forrest Adler. I like you."

I'm almost positive that she means that as passively and friendly as possible, yet my cheeks still burn with the implication. Something tells me that we're being watched, and when I look up, all of the joy gets zapped out of my soul. Griffin is walking back to his side of the field, hands on his hips, but he's looking over here. Watching us.

It seems like the cut on my leg is the least of my worries.

******
How's that for a long chapter?!

I apologize for everything that I packed in here, but Forrest certainly had a lot to say!

He's starting to warm up to his new friends, and a little birdy told me that's about to start a lottttt of problems... stay tuned for more chapters!