A shy high school senior jock and a closed-off girl battling an immune disorder fake a relationship to win a social media contest.
Being shy isn't easy, especially when you're the new kid at school. Scotts Valley's football program is subpar compare...
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"Brody, wake up!"
"Uggghhh." I groaned and buried my face into my pillow, wiping the damp corner of my mouth on it.
Despite the grogginess in my brain, I was coherent enough to roll onto my stomach, flat onto the morning wood that tented my boxers. My door burst open, loud footsteps approached, and a sharp sting bit into my right butt cheek. "Wake up, sleepy butt!" Mom called, which earned her another groan as I hugged my pillow tighter. A smack of her palm stung both my butt cheeks, followed by a slight huff.
"Five more minutes."
"Brody, you don't want to be late for your training session."
I pried open my heavy, sleep-crusted eyes. Training. A hot yawn rushed over my tongue as I stretched my arms and legs. "I'm up," I promised but waited until she left before swinging my feet over the side of my bed. I scrubbed my face, greasier than normal. Fantastic, more pimples.
Once my semi-hard deflated, I stumbled into the bathroom. Hopefully, I hit the toilet when I pissed with my eyes half-closed and tried not to kick the hallway boxes returning to my room. I pulled a clean set of workout clothes from my suitcase. Sharing a two-bedroom condo in the middle of nowhere, with no idea which box contained my shit, was still superior to Dad's multi-million dollar beachside house.
Thank fuck practice shifted to full pads and contact, bringing us closer to the seasoner opener. Next week I'd start padding my stats for the recruiters. A heavy ache slowed my legs. I wasn't used to returning kickoffs. Trayvon happily passed the workload onto me so he could play defensive back.
The more chances for points, yards, and attention for scouts, the better. Higher risk for injury, higher reward.
Nico and Trayvon seemed cool, but their bromance was tight. Caden labeled me his new favorite target, a connection that ended when we stepped off the field. I gelled with a few of the special teams guys, but at the end of each practice, my sweaty back said goodnight, and I went home.
"Brody?" Her knuckles knocked on the bathroom door, which I opened to a visual inspection. "Oh, good. Your zit shrank. Want me to pop any blackheads? I've got some peroxide in my bathroom."
Fuck, she was less than helpful. The last time she attacked my face with peroxide, my zits turned bright red and swelled into boils beneath my skin. All that earned me was larger, more painful skin that lasted longer than if I'd left them alone. "No."
"You'd better get going." Her palm clamped my shoulder. "I made breakfast, so get dressed, eat up, and get out."
On instinct, I tipped my head back and sniffed the air. No signs of Mom damage. This time. Why the woman tried to cook after proving she was one disaster away from burning down the building was beyond any stretch of my imagination.
A burst of pain erupted in the side of my foot, throbbing my pinkie toe. I steadied the shaking lopsided box pile on my way to the kitchen. Faint throbs carried me past the bare living room walls, and I relaxed at seeing a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice. She could screw up Lucky Charms. One time, she added milk and gave me rainbow sugar sludge. Wait, the juice. I took an experimental sniff and swirled the glass. Normal. Orange-y. "You didn't make this, did you?"
