Rules Of The Game: Book 1

3; Tackled-by-Surprise

𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸𝚗𝚍, 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢
Parker's POV

Saturday night doesn't come nearly as quick as it should.

Actually, the entire damn week seemed to keep dragging on. Every day felt like playing a broken record.

Wake up. School. Football. Homework. Sleep. Day after day after day.

The only intrusion to my schedule is Miles, who I actively try to avoid.

Ever since I got an earful from Greyson at practice on Monday, I have had to internally scold myself every time I laid eyes on that kid. My thoughts slip more than I care to admit. It has been more difficult in history class, but I realized that there's no time for conversation with him if I show up exactly when the bell rings.

Not that I'm trying to be a bully to the new guy. However, I don't have the time to give him that type of attention right now. I barely find time for my own friends anymore.

Gritting my teeth, I brush away the topic as I pull my car into Earhart Park. Guys and girls from school are walking out in packs to the football fields, their mouths moving soundlessly as the beat of my music fills my ears.

Heads turn as I maneuver my Audi near the back south side of the lot, next to Griffins' Hellcat.

We both try not to flaunt our families riches. Still, it isn't his fault that his dad is a retired NFL player, his mom an OBGYN nurse, and my mom is a top-ranking therapist married to a professional photographer.

I wave at Atlas as he jogs by, his wavy black hair flopping in the breeze as he carries a few footballs to the field for the game. Smiling to myself, I tuck the car keys in my pocket and hop out.

The evening is perfect for some friendly competition.

The sun is tucking down low over the far side of the hill, casting a golden haze on the hillside. Long shadows stretch from the base of the stadium lights that perimeter the field, which are starting to flicker on one-by-one slowly.

I scan the area as my tennis shoes reach the field grass, searching for familiar faces. My football team, or at least those who could make it, are lingering near the closest football goalpost. The rednecks have their trucks backed up as close to the grass as possible without going over the curb, bumping music from speakers set up in the beds, and passing out clear bottles of alcohol from coolers.

"Hey, do I need to get you a drink or something?"

I look away from the hive of activity and turn to see where the overly-friendly question came from. Hannah is walking up, her smile a little too eager, her shirt a little too tight. My eyes flash back to her face and I hate how my cheeks redden.

"No thanks, I don't drink alcohol. I need to be able to drive home tonight," I reply and scratch my neck as Hannah wanders closer.

"Gotcha. You're a good influence because I feel kinda guilty now." Hannah looks down at her cup and swirls around the contents before peering back up at me underneath her long, mascara-packed eyelashes. Those blue eyes are almost menacing.

I shrug and shuffle my feet away. A boy nearby dumps more ice into a cooler, and I think I would rather keep my face under the freezing lid for twelve hours than validate her bad choices.