Dallas Bryan tiene un problema...
...Y es Drayton Lahey. El guapísimo quarterback del equipo de fútbol

Author note: to clear up confusion that a lot of people have. Dallas is a female! She's a cheerleader. Drayton is our

main man. :) continue.

"Dallas! You've had all summer to lie around, get up and do laps. Now!"

I turn my head to the side, prying my eyes open from where I lay in the trimmed green grass of the school field. The sun streams down and it's entirely too beautiful of a day to be spent at school taking orders from Emily Raeken, captain of the cheer team and all around, evil dictator.

I decide then and there that I'll start a petition for summer break to extend a month longer. Days like this shouldn't be spent in the confines of school property. They should be spent on the road, creating memories, beach trips and whatever else one would deem buzz worthy.

"Get up Dallas!" The shrill voice comes piercing through the otherwise peaceful air. "Or you can do suicide runs for the rest of the afternoon!"

"One more year," I mutter to myself, rolling on to my hands and knees before I stand to my feet and begin jogging back and forth with the rest of the cheer squad.

One more year of cheerleading. One more year of school. One more year of Archwood High. One more year of Archwood, Colorado, before I can finally make my way to California and live the way I've always wanted to.

I complete the drills, pushing myself hard because at the end of the day, I may detest cheerleading and all the preppy propaganda that surrounds it. But I don't do anything half assed. And I need this team if I want any chance of attending the California Institute of the Arts to pursue my dance career.

Our school doesn't have a dance team, no matter how hard I'd tried to convince the school that it'd be beneficial to start one, it just didn't happen. So I had to settle for cheerleading, knowing that it'll look good on my college applications.

"Where's your cheer uniform?" Emily asks as I towel off the sweat beads that are soaking my body. I glance down at the little boy shorts and sports bra that I'm currently adorning before I meet her impatient glare.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I shrug, much to her obvious annoyance. "If I practice in my cheer uniform I have to wash it constantly."

"So buy a spare uniform or two," she rolls her eyes, with an obnoxious shrug.

"They're like two hundred dollars Emily. Not everyone has that kind of money."

"We practice in uniform." She orders before she starts to turn away. The tell tale signs of her elation are beaming from her features. I swear that causing misery gives her a fucking hard on.

I'm tempted to argue but instead bite my tongue. That rule has never applied and I'd bet my life that it still doesn't. But for some reason Emily is intent on getting a reaction from me and she often presses my buttons in hopes of getting one. I think that it has a lot to do with the fact that I don't give a shït about her 'status'.

I've made it this far in school, keeping under the radar, knowing when to speak and when not to speak and more often than not, I don't engage in conversations or arguments for the sake of staying invisible.

Emily is just our captain but the cruel twist of fate is that her mother is our coach. However, the woman is never around. I mean, never. I think she made a brief appearance at the Christmas party this year. But otherwise, Emily is left to make all of the calls. She decides who makes the team, who doesn't. What routines we do and where we do them. She decides how often we practice and she does hustle. But her routines lack originality and I'm sick of doing the same steps in a different order all the time.

I take a deep breath and snatch my gym bag from the bleachers, heading towards the locker rooms on the other side of the field. I absentmindedly watch the football players practice their drills, the first practice of the year.

Most of them, if not all of them probably spent the entire summer here doing these drills, but apparently there's no rest for the wicked. Our team is one of the best in the state and coach makes them work hard, ensuring that they practice almost every day.

My phone hums with vibration from inside my gym bag and I pull it out and see a text from Spencer. My best friend and pretty much the only person in this school that I can tolerate spending an extended amount of time with.

Hey, so I know it's only Monday. But I'm thinking of the weekend already. FaceTime me when you're home. We'll discuss plans!

I smile to myself, knowing that she'll more likely than not, try and coerce me into a party because she believes my 'connections' should be put to good use.

Spencer adores the social life. She flies under the radar, much like I do. But she still likes to let her hair down and live a little. Most of our outings are for her benefit, but I always tag along because if I don't then she wouldn't have anyone else to go with.

She's one of the most beautiful girls that I've ever met. Her caramel complexion and dark hair is something to envy. Not to mention her bone structure is to die for. But she doesn't dress herself up, she rarely wears make up and she's hidden behind a pair of retro glasses unless it's the odd occasion when she puts her contacts in. Of course, the shallow humans in this school can't appreciate someone unless they look like a life size barbie doll.

I begin to type out a reply, appeasing her need for socialising by saying that I can't wait to hear what she's got planned, when a distant masculine voice gets my attention.

"Heads up!"

I look forward just in time to spot a football spiralling through the air, straight towards my face. Instinctually my phone drops out of my hand as I lift my arms and catch the ball before it breaks my nose and more importantly my pride. Because that would have been humiliating.

"Sorry!"

I move the ball away from the front my face and spot a built quarterback pulling off his helmet. He's a good forty five feet away but I recognise his unreal good looks immediately.

Drayton Lahey.

Team quarterback, Captain of the Archwood Wolves.

His sweat drenched dark blonde locks stick up in all directions after he's pulled his helmet off but somehow he still looks like a damn GQ model. He claps his hands and holds his arms out, signalling for me to throw the ball as he begins a light jog towards me. His muscular frame is dominant, his olive skin glistening with sweat. How does he make sweat look good?

I save the saliva that's running down my chin because while I don't know a lot about our team captain, I do know that he's obnoxious. He's loud, he's inappropriate and that's what I've picked up without sharing classes with him. This year we have Econ together.

I pull my arm back and step forward, throwing the ball through the air, directly towards him. It's a perfect shot and he catches it flawlessly. I make out the surprised expression that flashes on his features for a brief moment. A few low whistles come from his team mates and I hear the words 'she-hulk' from somewhere down field.

It's as if they can't fathom that a girl can throw a ball.

I roll my eyes and pick up my phone and gym bag from the ground before I  carry on towards the locker rooms. It's typical that something as simple as throwing a ball could attract attention. It's a testament to how underdeveloped teenage brains are.

The sky is filtered with red and orange hues by the time I leave the locker rooms. It's the colour of the sky that makes me happiest. Like someone's smeared a paintbrush across the horizon. A canvas transitioning a beautiful day into a clear night.

However my mood is quickly dampened when I approach my car in the parking lot and see a large dent in the back bumper. It's scratched with black paint. I run my hand along the grooves with frustration. Whoever had done it hadn't stuck around to swap details and the inconsideration makes me furious. This kind of thing is forgivable in my opinion.

A ding and ditch, is not!

My car is a lemon. It's not a fifty thousand dollar rover like some of the kids around here drive, but it's the only one I've got and I can't afford for people to crash into it and not at least give some contribution for the damage.

I get in the car and slam the door, driving home with a scowl etched on my features the entire way. I often work at a local diner after school but my shifts have been few and far between since the manager hired a few extra employees. I only have two shifts this week, much to my disappointment.

When I arrive home fifteen minutes later, the garage door is already open so I pull right in and jump out with a huff, jogging up the narrow footpath towards the front door.

As soon as I get inside I swing the door shut, hurling my backpack into the corner of the living room. "Nathan?!" I call out for my older brother and legal guardian, hoping that he can shed some helpful light on my current car predicament.

The small open plan living area offers no sign of the eldest Bryan sibling and our little two bedroom shack isn't big enough for my voice not to travel. He's obviously not home so I put the frustration on the back burner and walk over to the fridge, pulling out a water bottle and guzzling it back to quench some of the dehydration that summer provides.

A little note stuck to the stainless steel bench catches my attention as I take a deep breath and wipe the back of my hand across my now wet lips.

Gone for a throw with the boys. Be back later.

It's not surprising in the slightest. I come home to these notes regularly. My twenty five year old brother is a sports teacher at the local community college, but in high school he'd been the star quarter back on a fast track to pro success.

Unfortunately a shoulder injury put him out of the game and by the time he'd healed enough to consider a full time position in a football team, he'd lost his mojo, never fully gaining his athletic ability back. He could still run circles around some of the boys on our team. But it wasn't enough for a national position. He'd accepted it with a gracious attitude and seemed to enjoy training the younger up and comers.

Suddenly the blare of the door bell chimes through the dead silent house, giving me a hell of a fright. The water bottle in my hand clenches when I squeeze it with a startle, tipping a stream of water down the front of my white shirt.

"Great." I mumble, setting the bottle down and heading towards the front door, opening it to reveal none other than Drayton Lahey. A flashback to this afternoon's exchange crosses my mind. Maybe he's come to recruit me for the team.

Ha.. unlikely.

However shocked I am, I keep my expression neutral. Refusing to let my eyes travel his built torso under the white sleeveless tank top that he's wearing the hell out of.

"Hot bra," he nods his head towards the black lace bra that's become visible under the white shirt. If he thinks I'm going to have some flustered moment and panic over the fact that he can see my bra, he's dead wrong. I keep my hand resting on the door with a bored expression.

"Are you lost?"

His eyes widen for a moment until the hooded uncaring expression seeps back into his features.

"Na, I actually hit your car at school today." He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, placing one between his lips as he pats his pockets in search of a lighter.

"Can you not?"

I wait for him to put it away but he doesn't. He gets as far as finding his lighter before I lean forward and pluck the death stick from his mouth, snapping it in half and ignoring the disbelief that contorts his features.

You'd think a football player would know better than to smoke.

"That was you?" I ask, getting back to the fact that Drayton fucking Lahey hit my car.

"Yeah, sorry." He recovers from my assault on his cancer cane, not looking sorry in the slightest.

"How'd you find out where I live?" I ask skeptically as he leans on the door frame with a cavalier attitude.

"I followed you."

"Why didn't you just tell me at school?"

He purses his lips, his gaze narrowing as he appears to be coming up with some sort of excuse.

"Oh I see," I slowly nod. "You didn't want anyone to see you talking to me."

"What? No," he recoils with surprise and stammers but fails to come up with a legitimate excuse as his mouth opens and closes like a blubbering fish.

"Save it. Follow me. If you haven't taken too many balls to the head, maybe you can actually fix this." I step past him and start heading towards the driveway.

"Uh I was actually just gonna give you some cash.." he mumbles, jogging to catch up.

"Are you serious?" I spin on my heel and stop in front of him. "What kind of man are you?"

I almost laugh as a wounded expression forms on his face. The blow to his masculinity clearly having an adverse effect on his bravado. I'm aware that just because he has a penis that doesn't mean he came out of the womb with a degree in mechanics and a lumber trade. I just couldn't resist the figurative kick between his legs.

"Look," he says with a clipped tone, ignoring my jeer at his lacking skill set. "It had nothing to do with people seeing me talk to you. I was waiting on my bike for whoever owned the car and then I saw you getting.. really pissed off. So I figured I'd save a scene at school and just come here."

I glance out on to the road and notice his shiny black motorcycle. A sizeable dent on the side of it makes me cringe. It's worse than my car that's for sure. I'm not even sure how he'd managed to accomplish such a cock up but I decide not to ask.

"Okay," I sigh and give him a small appreciative smile. "Well I appreciate you coming to own up. I think it might cost around—" I narrow my eyes as if I'm internally calculating— "two maybe three grand."

"Get off," he scoffs.

I roll my eyes with amusement as he pulls out another cigarette but it doesn't even make it as far as his lips before I snatch it and snap it again.

"Can you quit it!" He snaps with a deep voice as I throw the severed stick on the ground. "Those things aren't fucking free."

"No but they are disgusting and you don't have permission to smoke on my property! Didn't you get that the first two times I more or less told you that."

He rolls his eyes at the broad smile I flash him, not feeling a slither of guilt for wasting his oodles of money. He pulls a black cap out of the back of his jeans and slips it on backwards as he wipes the sweat off his forehead.

"You're doing it wrong." I point at his head. "The hat serves no purpose if you don't turn it around."

"It looks better backwards," he shrugs and damn, he is right. I'm a sucker for a backwards cap. "What do you care anyway, here"- he slides his hand into his front pocket and pulls out a wad of cash- "Get your car fixed."

"Dallas!" My head flicks away from the handful of cash in my palm and towards my brother who's climbing out of his friends car, his eyes glued to Drayton.

"Hey Nathan," I smile and slip the money into my pocket as he tosses me the football he'd been cradling.

"Nathan Bryan?!" Drayton gazes at my brother with a look of admiration. "Shit you're a legend round our halls. Coach still has a picture of you in his office."

Nathan shakes Drayton's outstretched hand, his confused expression slowly morphing into one of pride. "You play at Archwood?"

"Quarterback," Drayton answers as he folds his bulging arms, the muscles expanding beyond belief.

His right arm is decorated in a sleeve of tattoos that were obviously done by an extremely talented artist. They're beautiful. There's a mixture of different motorcycles and pistols. There's footballs and a few other drawings of randomly scattered items like dead flowers and skulls but they're subtle. You have to really look to see them.

Running between all of the art, is a road that starts at his wrist and winds up to his shoulder and at the end of the road is the back of a little boy and girl, holding hands and walking off into the sunset. The whole thing is sketched perfectly and gives the illusion of a memory. I can't explain why but it has a faded sketch vibe about it and I wonder how much meaning is behind the sleeve.

Don't stare.

"So that's where you learnt how to throw like that." I realise that Drayton is talking to me and I quickly pull my eyes away from his biceps and tattoos.

"What do you mean?" Nathan asks.

"Oh this afternoon at practice," Drayton explains. "She woulda been wiped out but she caught a spinner and threw it back with one hell of an arm."

"Nice," Nathan regards me proudly. "She has to put up with me using her for practice most days," he gives me a light punch in the arm and then taps his back pack, "I bought some meat for a BBQ Dallas. I've got some cold beers in the fridge too.. wanna stay— uh—"

"Drayton, and sur-"

"No he can't!" I cut Drayton off before he can accept the invitation. "He's got stuff to do-"

"Oh would you look at that," Drayton stares at his blank cellphone screen with a smug smile. "My plans just got cancelled. Looks like I can join you."

"Cool," Nathan starts to head inside, leaving the two of us in a stare down. "Oh and Dallas, change your shirt."

"What do you think you're doing?" I ask Drayton once my brothers disappeared inside, ignoring the fact that his gaze is lingering on the aforementioned shirt that I'm well aware is still in need of being changed. But it's a bra for Gods sake. We all know girls wear them.

"Staying for a BBQ and beers." He shrugs, finally meeting my eyes. "What else?"

"Why! Since when do we hang out?"

"I'm actually staying to talk to your brother. I bet he has some great advice for the field." He smirks with a lazy smile before he leans in so closely that I can feel his breath on my neck. I can smell the perspire from his smooth skin and he actually smells as good as he looks. "Oh and uh, don't change your shirt. It looks just right to me."

• • •

I thought it'd be important to note that while our MC is not popular she's not shy and weak either. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Much love. Until next time x

Drayton the QB ❤️