Shut Out

Chapter three

I know that most schools have rivalries with other schools, but that's not how it worked at Hamilton High. Nope. Our biggest battles were fought on the home front.

It all started back when Logan was a junior in high school. That's when the school board decided to start an official school-sponsored soccer team. I don't know all the details — I was in second grade, and anything that didn't involve ponies just wasn't worth my time — but in a small town like ours, taking away half of the football team's funding to create another fall sport was pretty scandalous.

Apparently the football players got pissed at having to share time in the workout room, and the crowds that usually filled the stands at games began to dwindle as more and more people started going to watch the soccer team play. Hostility rose between them — and between the teams' coaches — and eventually a full-on war broke out.

Now, you'd think the drama would fade over time, right? Like, after the teams graduated and new players came in, it would die.

So not the case.

A decade later, the rivalry was still going strong. Every fall, when sports season started up, the battle would rage again. And the dumbest part was, I don't think the boys even knew why it had started to begin with. I'd asked Randy once and he'd just shrugged.

"Does it really matter?" he'd asked.

To me, a girl who had to share her boyfriend with the war every autumn, it did. But not to the players. They just knew that they hated one another. That was enough.

"Dickhead!" Randy yelled across the cafeteria as Kyle Forrester, the soccer team's goalie, gave him the middle finger.

I cringed at the volume of the obscenity in my ear, and I tapped Randy on the shoulder. "Hey, would you mind lowering the volume a little? I'd like my hearing to last a few more years." He flashed a quick smile at me and hooked an arm around my waist as he turned his attention back to the soccer team's table.

I was glad he didn't notice the way I tensed.

I sat at the lunch table, sandwiched between Randy and my best friend, Chloe. Though Chloe was too busy flirting with Michael Conrad to notice the stares we were getting from the rest of the student body. This was so not what I needed on a Monday.

I already had a headache from staying up too late the night before. That was the fatal flaw in my weekend schedule — with Randy over on Saturday nights, I didn't get to do any homework

until Sunday. With three AP classes on my plate, that meant lots of homework and late-night studying. Having people yell insults over my head the next day, while I was still exhausted? Not fun.

And also completely embarrassing. I rapped my knuckles against the table in a fast, anxious rhythm.

"Hey, could you keep it down? Seriously," I said to Randy just as one of Kyle's buddies yelled, "Fuck you!" back at us.

Randy shot him a glare before giving me an apologetic nod. "You okay?" he asked.

"Fine. I just have a headache."

He put a hand on the side of my head and smoothed back my hair, pushing some of the straight black strands from my eyes. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Well, you can — "

And that's when the glob of mashed potatoes landed in a disgusting mound on the table, right in front of me. They'd been flung, undoubtedly, by one of the soccer players at Kyle's table.

"Gross," I said, scooting my chair away from the table. "Randy, can you please put an end to this?"

But he wasn't listening. He was too busy glaring at the soccer team's table, a look of deep concentration on his reddening face. For some reason, it reminded me of a caveman contemplating how to make fire. Only Randy didn't want fire. He wanted a way to get revenge without getting detention — or, worse, suspended — in the process.

I stood up just as his best friend, Shane, picked up an orange and pulled back his arm, aiming for one of the soccer players' heads.

"Where you going, babe?" Randy asked, turning away from his enemies and reaching for my hand.

"Library," I muttered, wrenching my hand from his grasp without even meaning to. I let out a breath and rolled my shoulders, willing myself to relax. It was just Randy, after all.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust at my words. "Library? Why?"

"I need to finish some homework." I gave his shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze to let him know I wasn't pissed — this embarrassment wasn't entirely his fault; Kyle had been the one to start it, really — before scooping up my tray and edging around the table, heading to the front of the cafeteria so I could dump my barely touched food and hurry away from the madness.

At least, that was the plan.

Running into Cash Sterling kind of ruined it.

One minute I was clearing off my tray and returning it to the rack, thinking of how quiet the library would be, and the next I'd spun around — without checking behind me, of course — and slammed into something hard. For a second I was totally dazed, the top of my head pounding from the impact with something very solid. When my senses came back, I realized that the thing my head had hit was Cash's chin, and the only reason I was still standing was because one of his arms had wrapped quickly around my waist, keeping me from falling backward into the trash cans.

I knew it was him without even looking up. I blushed, embarrassed by the way I knew his scent. Hating that I remembered.

"You okay?" he asked in his bass voice.

I pulled away from him, hurriedly putting a few feet of space between us. "I'm fine."

Cash was still rubbing his chin where we'd collided. "Sorry. I didn't even see you."

"It's no big deal," I told him, pretending I didn't care if he noticed me or not. "But you shouldn't stand so close behind people. Maybe remember personal bubbles next time or… or something."

He shook his head, half laughing, and ran a hand over his buzzed brown hair. "Personal bubbles, huh?"

I almost laughed, too. That really had sounded lame. But I forced myself to keep a straight face, to stay cool and aloof. Cash Sterling would not make me smile. I wouldn't let him.

"Yes," I said stiffly. "It's, like, a three-foot radius for most people."

He smiled, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. "Would it surprise you if I mentioned that I barely passed geometry?"

"Oh," I said. "Well, a radius is the distance from any part of a circle's perimeter to the direct center of the circle. It's half the diameter. So if a circle is six feet across the middle, the radius is three feet and…" And I was rambling. I shifted my feet and took a breath. "And I got an A in geometry."

"I'm not surprised," he said. "Seems like I should have hired you as a tutor, huh?"

"I doubt even I could have saved you if radii are beyond your comprehension." The joke slipped out before I realized it.

"True," he said, stepping a little closer to me. "But if I'd been

smart enough to hire you, maybe I would have been smart enough to learn the material."

I was fighting off a smile when I saw Randy coming up behind Cash. That killed the smile. And in a weird way, I was grateful. It made me uncomfortable to be so comfortable around Cash.

Though I also didn't want to be present for the drama that was about to unfold.

"Hey, loser," Randy snapped. "Leave my girl alone."

Heat flooded my cheeks as Cash's face darkened and he turned to face Randy. "Sorry. I didn't realize Lissa was your property."

"Don't get an attitude with me," Randy said. "I'll kick your ass right here and — "

"Randy, stop," I hissed, sliding around Cash to stand between them. "Don't do something you'll regret. There are teachers around."

Randy glared up at Cash, who was at least two inches taller. "If he's messing with you, I'll beat the shit out of him."

But I knew it wasn't about me. Had Cash been any other guy — played any other sport — Randy wouldn't have left his seat. He really wasn't a jealous or possessive boyfriend most of the time. This was one hundred percent about the rivalry and the fact that Cash played soccer. I was just serving as a good excuse for a fight to break out.

And I certainly wasn't okay with that.

"I wasn't messing with anyone," Cash said. "I was coming up here to get a fork" — he pointed at the silverware container by the tray rack — "when I accidentally bumped into her." He used the

same hand to gesture to me. "I was just making sure she was okay. Didn't realize that was crossing the line. Next time, I'll just let her fall into the trash cans, if that'll make you feel better."

"You being a smartass?" Randy growled.

"Randy, come on," I demanded, tugging at his arm. "You're embarrassing me. Just let it go."

Randy resisted for a second before finally relenting and letting me pull him away. "Prick," he muttered after we'd taken about three steps.

"Yeah, he is," I said, though I was sure we had very different reasons for thinking so.

"Randy, hold up."

Despite my efforts to keep dragging him forward, Randy turned around to face Cash again. "What?"

I glanced over my shoulder and watched as Cash took a step forward. "I don't know if you heard, but Pete went to the hospital last night. Tore his ACL after that stunt you and your buddies pulled yesterday. He won't be able to play all season. Hope you're proud of yourself."

I froze. What?

Randy shrugged, and Cash turned and walked away.

"Come on," Randy said to me. "The library can wait, right? Let's go sit down and — "

"What stunt?"

"Huh?"

"What ‘stunt' did you and your buddies pull?" I asked. "What is Cash talking about? How did Pete tear his ACL?"

Randy looked away from me, his eyes darting around for a

second before finally coming to rest on the floor. "Nothing," he said. "I mean, we didn't do anything to the kid. It's his own fault. He should have known not to run through the woods when it was so dark, and — "

"We?" I repeated. My hands balled into fists at my sides. "Randy, two days ago you promised me you weren't going to get involved with that stuff."

"Lissa, lighten up. It's no big deal," he assured me.

"You promised me," I whispered. I wanted to yell — I was angry enough — but my voice just wouldn't rise. "You promised me you wouldn't get involved. Now that kid won't be able to play all season because of you."

"I swear it isn't a big deal. Besides, it's his own fault. He got hurt when he tried to run away from us."

"What were you going to do to him if he didn't get away?" Randy started to open his mouth, but I quickly shook my head. "Never mind. I don't want to know. It doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that a poor freshman is in the hospital now, and no matter how you try to excuse it, you lied to me."

"He'll be fine," Randy said, shrugging. "I don't see why you're freaking out so much."

I just stared at him. After more than a year, I thought we were past this. Past the lying and promise-breaking. After more than a year, I thought he understood me better than anyone. Maybe I was wrong.

An injury kept my father from ever playing sports again. Rationally, I knew that Pete's situation was nothing like Dad's, but to me, it didn't matter. The fact that Randy's actions — the

entire football team's actions — had hurt someone, ruined someone's season, made me sick. This was bigger than just an egging or a few shouts across the lunchroom. This was dangerous.

And Randy, the one person I trusted to understand my feelings on this, thought I was "freaking out." That was the worst part of all. Worse, even, than having him break his word to me.

"I'm going to the library," I murmured, scooting past him and heading toward the cafeteria doors. The whole place suddenly felt too loud, too chaotic.

I could feel the familiar panic setting in as I fought to restrain myself. I needed to get out of there.

"Come on, Lissa," I heard him calling after me. "Don't be mad. I'm sorry, okay?"

But I just kept walking.