𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝚜𝚝, 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢
Parker's POV

I grab the edge of the lunch table and look behind my shoulder so fast that my water bottle tumbles onto the floor with a loud clang.

Atlas, one of the guards on the football team that's more solid muscle rather than bulk, grumbles under his breath as the bottle falls next to his feet. He leans down to pick up the bottle for me, his unruly black hair flopping over his eyes.

I mutter a thank you, but Griffins' comment overpowers my words.

"Good lord, he's black too? That kid is seriously asking for it," Griffin objects as he strains to see Miles clearly.

Rose gasps, leaning over the tabletop to smack her fraternal twin brother with a ziplock bag full of pretzel sticks. "Griffin Reed Miller! That is not okay to say!'

Griffin bristles and smacks Roses pretzels away, except he's too slow and swats at the air. "What? Because I'm speaking facts?" He looks over his shoulder again, sparing the kid one more glance. "He's walking into the lion's den by entering here and saying shit like that."

Hannah tucks her hair behind her ear with one hand while stabbing a fork into her salad with the other. "He probably didn't have the option to hand-pick what school he attended."

I could hug Hannah for standing up to Griffin, except he can't, won't, accept defeat and admit that she's right. "Do you think his parents put those words in his mouth, too, huh? He had the option to keep that gayness to himself. Seriously, how hard can it be..."

As I watch Miles walk closer to the lunch tables, everyone's bickering turns into background noise. His presence is like a magnet.

This time, a different energy hovers over the room. Rather than the feeling of anticipation it was earlier, it feels like judgement.

Every single empathetic string in my heart tugs for Miles. I recognize the way he's holding his shoulders back too tightly with his chin too high. His thumbs are tucked into his pockets like he's trying to convince the prying eyes that he's totally at ease. It's a stance that I'm too familiar with.

Miles scans the bustling lunch room, his eyes bouncing from person to person, taking in all of the unfamiliar faces. I can see the gears turning in his head from where we sit. It doesn't appear that he's nervous or fearful of meeting people. He looks tired.

Rose must be picking up the same vibe as she sips her vitamin water and sets it down, clearing her throat. "I feel bad for him. Should we invite him over—"

"Don't finish that sentence."

Heat lights up under my skin as I turn to look at Griffin. His face is steely, brown eyes as hard as rocks. I know that it's pointless to bother arguing, except he's really starting to piss me off. More than usual.

"Dude, what is your problem?" I demand, crunching up the empty sandwich bag in my fist.

Griffin shoots his signature glare at me, his jaw tight. "I don't want to be associated with a queer." He spits the word out like a cherry pit. "Let him dig his own grave and die alone in it."

I scoff bitterly. "Go fuck yourself."

"That's a better option than fucking other males."

Giving him the finger, I simultaneously get to my feet.

Griffin can stay tied up on the rail ties of his own thoughts and fume about it until a train rolls around and runs him over, for all I care. Deep down, he's probably thrown off. We might live in California, but Griffin has a mind of his own.

Rose, Hannah, and Atlas shoot worried looks my way while Forrest scolds Griffins' behavior. He would be better off scolding a brick wall—he might get more constructive feedback by doing that.

As I turn around and walk away from the table, I find myself scanning the room for the new kid. Rubbing my throat, I walk out of the cafeteria when my search comes up short.

Deep down, I'm relieved to have an excuse to walk away from my peers for a few minutes. Everyone seems to be rubbing me the wrong way this morning.

My footsteps echo down the main hall, bouncing off the concrete walls and tall glass windows. Afternoon sunlight streams through the glass, capturing the disturbed dust in the air. The warmth calms me down and clears my head.

Up ahead where the hallway expands into the main lobby, the sound of slamming doors spurs me into a jog. It's a long shot to assume that Miles went that direction, except it's the only clue I have.

Sure enough, as I come around the bend, Miles dark skin catches my attention on the other side of the glass doors. I start after him confidently until my hands connect with the cold metal push bar.

What am I doing?

I hesitate and slowly release the door, chewing on my cheek. I don't have one good excuse for my sudden interest in this kid other than guilt.

There have been a few times in the past when I was the outsider, staring at hundreds of analyzing faces. I was the one being scrutinized during freshman year.

Miles is digging around in his pocket, walking further away. He hasn't noticed me. That means I have time to turn around and go back to my friends. Pretend that I wasn't here.

Or, I could go after him and make sure he's doing okay at the risk of being frowned upon.

If the wrong person caught me out there with him, my name would be soiled. The idiots in this school would spread rumors faster than the winter flu, making Miles speech look like child's play. My stomach wrings together as all of the bad possibilities pile up in my head.

One badly timed photo would be boosted all over Twitter. It would ripple through the school and then explode across social media. All of the college scouts would shake their fingers at my long list of broken football records and successful passing yards, at my long history of playing the game successfully. My parents would disown me. Griffin would murder me.

My entire life would be ruined.

Despite all of those alternatives, I open the door.

The California heat hits like a brick as the door clicks shut behind me, leaving behind the cool A/C. I squint against the sun as I walk toward the parking lot.

Miles startles at the sound of the door closing. As he turns around to see who's following him, I don't miss the sight of smoke wafting from his fingers and into the air. I don't even have to ask what he's smoking— the skunk smell hits like a truck.

Great. And he's a pothead. The colleges ought to go nuts over me.

Miles straightens up, his smile crooked. "You scared the shit outta me! Sorry, I wasn't expecting company," he apologizes as he reads my displeased expression.

I shrug and breathe a little shallower as I walk closer to him. "Nah, it's alright. You're lucky that I'm not a teacher. You could be expelled for smoking that on school grounds."

That stupid smile on Miles' face spreads wider, a glimmer in his eyes as he teases me, "Tell me, would I be the first kid to be kicked off school property without finishing my first day?"

I laugh politely to humor him, and I'm forced to follow him again as he continues to stroll through the parking lot. "I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but yeah. Probably."

Miles hums and brings the weed pen to his lips, taking his sweet time to let the toxic fumes destroy his lungs before responding to me. "Good, that's another thing for everyone to give me more shit about."

I bite my cheek again and glance at him from the corner of my eyes. I have to ask, "So... you've already heard the rumors?"

Miles nods and takes another drag. "Trust me, I'm no fool. I know what I said and what people are thinking." He holds the pen out to me. I grimace and shake my head, no. Shrugging, Miles slips it into his pocket and keeps talking. "I've learned it's better to get that stuff out of the way immediately. Especially when transferring schools. It ends up causing less drama eventually."

I find myself nodding along and pretending that I can relate as I follow him between a line of cars. "Yeah, you're right. Don't worry. By the end of the school day, some freshman will give a senior head in the bathroom and you'll be old news."

Miles sudden, blissful laugh makes my skin prickle. "My point exactly! Circle of high school life, yeah?"

A smile slips onto my lips, and I watch as he digs into his pocket, pulling out a pair of car keys. "Right," I mumble and glance up ahead at the car that chirps as he unlocks it. Raising my eyebrows, I point at the set of wheels. "Hold on, is that yours?"

Miles beams instantly, his smile brighter than the sun. "Yessir! Behold, my pride and joy. I'll spare you the boring details, but once upon a time, this was a summer project."

I whistle and check out the car in admiration. I'm not a car guru like my dad, but I'm no idiot, either. His vintage Shelby Mustang sticks out like a beautiful sore thumb against the other shiny cars in this lot. The paint job is restored to a glittering dark blue, and the white parallel racing stripes over the top are a bold touch. My dad would be foaming at the mouth over this thing.

"How did you stumble across a Shelby? You know this thing is worth an entire gold mine today, right?"

Miles shrugs and runs his hand over the hood as we approach. The love in his eyes while looking at the car makes me feel like I'm intruding on something. "I know. It was a stroke of luck. An old, really good friend of mine brought the body over one day and we spent the entire summer fixing it up. We even pooled our savings and bought an engine to fix and replace the old one. She's fresh now."

"Good grief." I laugh, even though I'm trying to process how he said, really good friend. Did he mean, like, an old boyfriend?

Okay, snoopy. It's not like that matters, anyway, I scold myself.

Miles chuckles and swings open the passenger door. He sits on the seat and pops open the glovebox. "Laugh all you want, boy, but this bitch pays for itself on the streets. You sure that you don't smoke?" He pulls a different dab pen from his other pocket and holds it to me expectantly.

Wrinkling my nose at the thought, I shake my head, no, again. I don't want to imagine what Greyson would do if he found out I had smoked weed.

Miles quirks his lips and turns to the glovebox, tossing all evidence of his smoking habits alongside the napkins.

"So, you make money with this thing? What do you do, charge kids to take pictures next to it?" I ask and step out of the way as he stands up, closing the door.

I'm so startled from being this close to Miles proximity that I forget what I just asked him. The clouds slowly amble out of the way of the sun, and bright sunlight highlights his skin into a warm, toffee brown. His entire body is sculpted, and his tshirt clings to the muscles around his shoulders.

The Mustang beeps as it locks. I jump, my skin crawling with the realization of what I imagined underneath that shirt. Since he's standing in front of me with no classroom distraction, I'm taken slightly back. I like to think of myself as being fairly tall. I've always been two inches under six feet, maybe one on a good day.

Miles is proving my idea of tall wrong. He has at least six or seven inches on me.

"What? C'mon bro, that's just mean!" Miles laughs and waves his hand forward, motioning for me to lead the way out of the row of cars. I move quickly, tripping over my feet to oblige. "Nah, sometimes I'll find races and make some cash from winning. I don't really have time for that anymore." He pauses as a million more questions fill my head.

Who is this kid? Street racing? How much money does that bring in? Who taught him that? Does he have any crazy stories? Did his really good friend race, too?

I don't have enough time to ask before Miles talks again. He falls in stride next to me as we come around the cars, walking back towards the school.

"Hey, I never got your name earlier." Miles looks over at me, and I blame the sun for the way my cheeks go pink.

"Right. Parker," I say numbly.

I can feel his eyes moving up and down my body.

"Cool, I haven't met a Parker yet. Miles, but I'm sure you already know that." He grins and stops to stick his hand out at me.

"Nice to officially meet you," I say and smile, coming to a stop to give Miles a handshake that I hope isn't too weak or flimsy. He has big, strong basketball hands, as my uncle would say. I have a gut feeling that it won't be long before Greyson is begging Miles to play basketball in the winter.

As I take my hand back, I grab my phone from my pocket and glance at the time. There are about seven minutes left for me to wrap up this conversation and save my neck.

As a thought dawns on me, Miles turns to lead the way back into the school. Just because the rest of the student body is being a prick to him doesn't mean that I have too. He needs to meet new people, make more friends.

"I got a question for you," I start to say and peer over at Miles. He raises his eyebrows at me.

"Saturday night, the juniors and seniors are meeting at Earhart Park over on the west side of town," I explain and point to the west. "There's some community football fields out there, and it's the first big event that the seniors host to kick off homecoming at the end of this month. We usually play capture the flag on this particular weekend."

Miles pursues his lips for a moment and looks down at the sun-baked concrete, mulling the invitation over.

I pause and start to question why I even bothered asking. What if this was code talk for a date? Was I forcing him out of his comfort zone? Was this too soon for him to meet people?

Since I'm already expecting some flimsy excuse, his response surprises me.

"Sure, why the hell not? Will there be food?"

I laugh as the weight in my stomach lifts. Of course he would agree with no questions asked, except for the most important one.

"Of course there's going to be food."

"Sweet. I'll be there."

- - -

After school has ended for the day, I squint against the sweat pooling down my forehead, into my vision.

Greyson is no idiot and won't have us wear head-to-toe football gear unless it's absolutely necessary. But even in gym shorts, a tshirt, and a helmet, heat radiates off of my skin as the sun dips below the horizon. I feel like I'm frying in a greasy pan.

"Eyes up, boys! Keep your head on a pivot!" Greyson barks, clapping his hands as he careens around the field, watching twenty-two of us like a hawk.

Inhaling deeply, I shake out my arms and tip my head back, blinking back the sweat. These plays that he is running us through are fucking killer.

My center on offense, Declan, jogs back toward me and shakes his hand that's holding the ball. "Ready for another, Graham?" he calls over to me.

I give him a thumbs up in reply and get into my position on the scrimmage line.

Griffin walks past me with his hands on his hips, chest heaving. By the sight of his sweat-soaked tshirt, he's faring no better than I am in this heat. Making my point even clearer, he pauses by me grumble, "Someone's gotta tell my dad that we're high schoolers, not his goddamn NFL team."

I laugh breezily. "I'll let you bring that up to him and see how he takes it."

Griffin scoffs, already knowing the earful he would be bound to get from his dad as he walks to his place behind my line for his position as a running back.

Shaking the sweat off of my arms, I dip down in position as the rest of my team get in their spots for this play.

Unfortunately, Griffin has a lot of truth ringing in his words. Greyson used to play for an NFL team, the Rams, here in the West Division nearly 20 years ago. He rose in the ranks as Rookie of the Year, only to finish the season by making a dumb, cocky, avoidable mistake. He snapped his leg in half with a career ending injury, never to play on the field again.

Whenever Griffin gets drunk, bitching about his dad and how he lives out his fantasies through high school football is his favorite topic.

Greyson has yet to hear about that theory, however I wouldn't be surprised if Griffin spilled it on accident one of these days. Or on purpose. It'll be a gamble to see which happens first.

A sharp whistle jolts my train of thought off of its tracks. Instantly, I hone in on the play ahead of us. We've been running through this for almost an hour, except it's so complicated that someone always messes something up, forcing us to cycle through the play again.

Determined to make it right, I call the play loud enough for the whole field to hear. Declan snaps the ball back into my hands, and I straighten, taking a half step back as I raise my eyes.

Scanning the field, everyone's on the move. I can only tell my offense and defense apart because the defense is decked out with flimsy red jerseys, which stand out like sore thumbs against our helmet colors of purple and neon green.

Joshua, one of my wide receivers, outsmarted the defense and is halfway down the field. I tighten my grip on the ball, preparing to throw, when motion outside the football field catches my eye.

A small group of girls are loitering around the fence as usual, but that's not what makes me pause. A darker form is walking down the sidewalk, hurrying to the parking lot, their thumbs hooked through the straps.

Miles.

"Parker!"

Greyson yells my name so loud that he rips me right out of my stupor and throws me off.

Distracted, I aim the ball blindly, right as the linebacker on defense tears through my offensive wall.

I notice the football fly a whole yard away from Joshua's outstretched hands right as the linebacker knocks my ass flat on the ground.

I grunt at the impact, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment. No.

Greyson must be reading my mind as he voices precisely what I'm thinking. "Kid, what the hell was that?"

Opening my eyes, I grimace as I make eye contact with Greyson. He's standing over me with his hands on his hips, unimpressed. "You haven't missed one throw all week. What's going on?"

"Nothing is going on. Trust me. It won't happen again," I promise and climb to my feet when it's obvious that my uncle won't help me.

Greyson frowns and shakes his head. "You're better than this, so act like it."

Grabbing the whistle around his neck, he blows it hard enough to make my ears ring. "Again!"