What if I miss him when he’s gone?
And we can’t forget . . . I’m inherently weak when it comes to jocks.
Nope. Not a good idea at all.
It’s not until I’ve cranked the Caddy that it dawns on me.
He called me Princess.
I bang my head on the steering wheel.
Chapter 8
RONAN
The bell rings for the end of my freshman history class, and the students grab their books. I gather my things, my head still thinking about Nova—
“Coach!” Bruno, Milo, and Toby fill up the room with their shouts as they rush to my desk. All three are wearing jerseys for spirit day, their faces sweaty. It’s Friday, our bye week.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m headed to lunch—”
Toby’s face is red, his usually kind eyes hard. “Someone’s snuck on campus and left us a message in the stadium. The maintenance person just saw us in the hall and told us. We ran out there and checked it out, then came here.”
I frown as I come around the desk. I was just at the stadium this morning before I came inside. I’ve heard of pranks from opposing teams in the past—toilet paper, cows let in, trucks that tear up the field . . .
“What is it?”
“You have to see it for yourself to get the full picture. Words don’t do it justice. I mean, it’s unacceptable,” Bruno calls out as he slams his fist into his palm. “They’re messing with our heads! Literally!”
“I see.” I grab my clipboard and whistle. “All right, show me.”
Skeeter joins us in the hall, and I fill him in as we muscle through the lunch crowd, leave the building, and head to the stadium. We enter and step out on the grass.
The sun is high in the sky, and I squint at the field. Holy shit . . . “Are those stuffed animals?” There are hundreds, from one end zone to the other, bits of tuft and mangled bodies covered in fur, red splatter dripping.
“Yep,” comes from Skeeter. “Mutilated.”
I put my hands on my hips and stalk out to center field, where our mascot is painted. There’s a life-size stuffed bobcat lying on top of it, decapitated and covered in red paint. Its jaw is open with a note crammed in. I take it out and unfold it.
Bobcats are dead meat. We will tear you apart piece by piece on the field just like we did these animals. We beat you last year and we’ll beat you again. You’re not good enough to make it to state. And Coach Smith is a loser. He’s only there until he can get a better job. Go fuck yourselves, dickheads.
“Well. That’s uncalled for,” I mutter.
The trio has followed and is trying to read it over my shoulder, but I tuck it into my pocket. No reason to fan the flames.
“This is a squirrel head!” Bruno grouses, jerking one up off the field and waving it around. “And here’s a tiger. Stupid fuc—I mean jerks. They didn’t even use the right animal!”
“I found a teddy bear!” Milo calls from the end zone.
Toby’s mouth tightens. “They must have had to go to every Walmart in the state to get this many stuffed animals.” He kicks one of them, and it sails through the air.
I grit my teeth. Last year, our team had a hill to climb, and we were the underdogs but ended up with a good season, but now that we’re slated as one of the top teams in the state . . . “Who did this?”
Toby gives me a steely look. “My bets are on Huddersfield.”
“That game isn’t for weeks,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re vicious.”
I whip my hat off and slap my leg. “We don’t have a million-dollar stadium for nothing. Let’s check the cameras.”
We march to the control room upstairs, but before we get there, Toby stops us, his tone bitter. He’s got his phone in his hands. “Huddersfield has already claimed it. They posted on Instagram.” He shoves a phone at me, and I stare at a picture of our field littered with red-splattered animals. They must have been up in the stands to get this pic. Fuckers.
“Who is this person?” I ask.
Toby takes his phone back. “A fake account by the looks of it—which means they’ll get away with it.”
Bruno grabs it. “Dude! It’s got over five hundred likes and all kinds of comments.” His shoulders heave as he points out to the field. “This demands revenge.”
Bruno can be a hothead, Toby is the peacemaker, and Milo just goes along, but Toby nods his agreement. Skeeter does, too, and I frown. No, Skeeter . . .
We check the cameras and see a white SUV pulling up and three masked figures getting out, all dressed in black and carrying garbage bags. They seem to be guys, but it’s hard to tell with the view. The license plate is covered in paper. Well planned.