Rounding Third - Michelle Lynn Page 0,16

doesn’t have a shot.

“She’s taken, so keep your hands to yourself.”

A few heads flip around after his voice heightens.

Not needing a professor to hate me on day one, I lean in closer to whisper in his ear, “I can’t make any promises. It’s nothing personal, believe me, but technically, she’s always been mine.” I ease back against my chair right as the professor’s eyes catch mine.

Liam’s head whips around, and I wait for him to ask me to take our discussion outside. But he cowers, like I knew he would.

“Try to steal her away from me, and see what happens,” he says.

“I’m not going to have to try hard. Your time with her was over the moment she saw me.”

The professor forcefully clears her throat, eyeing us. If we don’t end this conversation soon, we’ll both be kicked out.

“Don’t be so cocky, asshole. The fact that I don’t know anything about you, and the fact that she’s never mentioned your name, show what she really thinks of you.”

“You two”—the professor points, and a hundred pairs of eyes turn in our direction—“since you’re so chatty, maybe you should be conducting the lecture this morning?” She crosses her arms over her purple blouse and waits for our answer.

“Sorry, Professor Knight,” Douche Bag says.

“Sorry,” I say.

She nods and starts the lecture back up again, her eyes continuing to linger on us.

He slides over to his original seat.

I strike my earlier thought. I have no idea what El sees in this weak shithead.

I lean over the now vacant chair, testing my luck one final time. “Don’t worry. I’ll be around. We can continue this conversation soon.”

He scoffs me off, shaking his head. His fingers start tapping on the keys of his laptop as he accepts his defeat for this round.

“Lynch!” Coach Lipton yells into the locker room.

Every player stops mid movement. I swear the man could scare Big Foot right off of his hairy ass.

“Yeah, Coach?” I scream back, tying my cleat.

“I need to see you.”

“Sure thing.” I stand, grabbing my sunglasses, hat, and glove.

“First day, and you fucked up already?” Oliver asks from the locker next to mine.

“Shit, I hope not,” I murmur.

I leave my half-dressed teammates, crossing my fingers that Professor Knight didn’t narc me out to Coach about my disruption in class.

Getting called into a coach’s office is either really good or really bad, but never in between.

With his reading glasses on the tip of his nose, Coach is sitting in his chair, the sports section of the newspaper opened on his desk.

I knock on his open door.

“Come in, Lynch.”

I slide into the nearest seat, placing my stuff on the chair next to me. the tapping of my cleats on the concrete floor echoes in the corners of the room from my uncontrollable shaking leg.

“So, I wanted to talk to you really quick about a few things.” He takes off his glasses and tosses them on the newspaper before his thumb and forefinger press on the bridge of his nose.

Surely, my interruption in class this morning wouldn’t spur this reaction. A knot forms in my stomach.

“Yes, Coach?”

“The school newspaper wants to do an article on you.” He rolls his eyes and releases a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not even sure how it all came about, but they heard about your story.”

My leg stops shaking and I strengthen my back as the uneasiness washes over me. Ridgemont was my fresh start. I mean, the accident made front pages on the Beltline Press, but it didn’t hit national news. Another newspaper article for all to judge me again? No thanks.

“What happens if I say no?”

He shakes his head. “My guess is, they’ll write it anyway—without your side of it.”

I lean back in the hard wooden chair and lock my fingers together in front of me. “So, I’m pretty much screwed?”

“I don’t think it’s some rehashing of the accident. They wanted to feature both you and Brax. Friends reunited. The decision is yours, but I’d rather have your voice in the article.

“I can’t do it.”

I stand, and Coach does the same. His hands resting on the top of his strained stomach.

“I’m not sure you have a choice, Crosby. I can’t control the newspaper. They can say and do whatever they like.”

The leather of my glove squeaks as my fists tighten around it, the urge to rip it in half growing stronger.

“Then, they can. I’m not doing an interview about my past because it’s exactly that—my past. If they care to