Her tone softens, and there’s a crack in her voice as she says, “Thank you.”

21

Ella

Even as I warm up with the other girls, I’m still expecting some sort of ambush. My wary gaze darts toward Jordan after each stretch and exercise I complete, but she seems focused on her own stretches. Maybe this is legit? I mean, I practiced with these girls all week, and I didn’t get so much as a hint that they might be up to something. I’m praying that nobody is going to throw a bucket of pig’s blood on me when I’m in the middle of a tumbling routine.

As Hailey and I head for the bench to rehydrate, she leans in closer and whispers, “There are, like, a hundred girls staring at you right now.”

I frown and follow her gaze. Sure enough, there are a lot of female eyes on me. Male ones, too, because of the booty shorts and crop top I’m wearing. But the girls aren’t checking me out—they’re all looking at me in…envy?

It doesn’t make sense to me at first, but when I pass a group of jersey-wearing girls in the front row, the pieces suddenly slide together.

“That’s his girlfriend!” one hisses loud enough for me to overhear.

“She’s so pretty,” her friend whispers back, sounding sincere rather than catty.

“She’s lucky, more like it,” the first one responds. “I’d die to go out with Reed Royal.”

This is about Reed? Wow. I guess that girl on the bus was right—bad boys do have major appeal. I glance at the away bench, where Reed is sitting with Easton, then at the stands, and realize that a ton of girls are looking covetously at Reed.

Jordan sidles up to me. “Quit eye-fucking your boyfriend,” she mutters. “We’re going on soon.”

I glance over at her. “I’m pretty sure every chick in this stadium is doing the same thing. I guess it’s every girl’s fantasy to hook up with a murder suspect?”

My nemesis snorts in amusement, then slaps a hand over her mouth as if she realizes what she’d done. I’m kind of surprised, too, since Jordan and I aren’t exactly joking-around friends. Or friends, period.

The non-toxic exchange must have freaked Jordan out, because she suddenly snarls at me. “Your shorts are riding up. I can see half your ass. Fix yourself up, will you?”

I fight a grin as she stalks off, because we both know the industrial double-stick tape on my ass means my shorts haven’t moved an inch. Maybe I’ve been going about this the wrong way—instead of shooting insults and antagonizing Jordan, maybe I should be extra sweet and friendly. That would drive her insane.

I turn toward the bleachers again in search of Val. When I spot her a few rows behind the away bench, I give her a happy wave. She waves back and then shouts, “Break a leg!”

Grinning, I rejoin the team and bounce up and down on my heels a little, mentally preparing myself for the routine. I think I have it down pat, but hopefully I don’t forget all the moves once the spotlight is on me.

Since it’s the first playoffs game, the pre-show is ridiculously extravagant. There’s a drum line routine punctuated by fire shooting out of big pillars on either side of the field and a short display of fireworks. The Gibson High cheerleaders put on a routine that involves a lot of butt-shaking and hip-swaying, causing all the guys in the stands to jump to their feet and whistle and catcall. Then it’s our turn. The girls and I run onto the field. I catch Reed’s eye as I get in position next to Hailey.

He gives me a thumbs up, which I return with a huge grin.

The music starts, and we’re off.

All my nerves disappear the moment the beat injects into my bloodstream. I nail every spin and turn. I kill it on the short tumbling routine that I do side by side with Hailey. Adrenaline sizzles inside me, my heart racing in excitement as the fast-paced dance routine draws deafening cheers from the crowd. The team moves in perfect precision, and when we finally wrap up, we get a standing ovation.

Now I get why Astor Park has won all those national championships. These girls are talented. And although this started off as just a way for me to attend this game, I can’t lie—I’m kind of proud to have been a part of this performance.

Even Jordan is in an ecstatic mood. Her cheeks glow as she hugs and high-fives her teammates—including me. Yep, she actually gives me a high-five, and it’s genuine. I guess hell must have frozen over.

Any thoughts of murder and verdicts and prison are relegated to the very back of my head. No one else seems to be bothered by it, either.

After we clear the field, there’s some discussion with the refs and the coaches, a coin toss, and then the game gets underway. The Riders’ offense is up first, and my eyes follow Wade as he jogs onto the field. He’s a tall guy, but for some reason he looks even bigger in his uniform and with his helmet on.

On the first play, Wade throws a short pass to a receiver with the name Blackwood on his jersey. Blackwood catches the ball, but then there’s a long, boring halt as the refs try to decide if he gained enough yards for a new set of downs—Hailey helped me with some of the lingo on the bus ride up here when she found out how little I knew about the game. A little man darts out and measures the distance from the ball to the line, then holds up his hands and makes a signal I don’t understand. Hailey and I didn’t cover hand signals.

The Astor Park fans cheer in approval. Me, I’m just bored from how long it took to decide if our guys got a few measly yards. I search the sidelines until I spot Reed. At least I think it’s Reed. There are two players with ROYAL stitched on their jerseys and they’re standing side by side, so for all I know, I’m ogling Easton’s butt and not Reed’s. He shifts his head and I see his profile. Yup, it’s Reed.

He’s chewing on his mouth guard, and then, as if he senses me watching him, he sharply turns his head. The mouth guard pops out and he grins at me. It’s a wicked, private smile reserved just for me.

The excitement vibrating in the stadium only gets more intense when Gibson ends up tying the score right before halftime. In retaliation, Reed and Easton tackle the Gibson quarterback the next time he’s on the field, and the guy fumbles the football. Someone else on the Astor defense scoops it up and runs it in for a touchdown.

The Astor Park fans are freaking out. The home fans are booing loud enough to rock the bleachers. Some of the Gibson kids start chanting, “Killer, killer,” but are quickly shut down by some administrators. The verbal attacks only seem to fire up the Astor Park team even more.