My Stepbrother Sent the Quarterback to Break Me

Weston pulled up at the gate at eleven-forty.

I'd changed three times. Then I'd stopped, because this wasn't a real date, and I wasn't going to dress up for a lie. Black top. Jeans. Hair down. Done.

He was leaning against a dusty black Jeep with his hands in his pockets. When I came through the gate, he straightened up and reached for the passenger door.

"You don't need to open it for me," I said.

"You look so good today."

"It's just a T-shirt."

"I noticed."

I climbed in before he could see my face.

---

The theater was old and half-empty. It smelled like butter and wet carpet. The movie was called *The Hollow Hour*, and the poster showed a girl screaming into a well.

"Midnight horror," I said, sliding into my seat. "Bold choice for a first date."

"You think it's a date?"

"You think it isn't?"

He just grinned and handed me the popcorn.

The lights went down. The screen went gray, then black, then a little girl walked into a cornfield alone. Everyone in the theater knew how that was going to end.

Somewhere in the first ten minutes, his hand found mine on the armrest.

He didn't ask. He just slid his fingers between mine and held on, warm and steady, like he'd done it a hundred times.

My pulse jumped. Stupidly. Like I was thirteen.

Then I pictured Camden in his desk chair, feet up, laughing at the ceiling. *Give it two weeks.*

Heat climbed my neck. Not the good kind.

So this was step one. Hold her hand in the dark. Check.

I didn't pull away.

I squeezed back.

---

Forty minutes in, the well came back.

The girl leaned over the edge. The music dropped out. Total silence.

Then something white and wet shot up out of the dark, straight at the camera, and the whole theater screamed.

Weston's arm was around me before I'd even flinched. He pulled me sideways into his chest, his hand cupped over the back of my head.

"I got you," he muttered.

My cheek was pressed against his hoodie. Under it, his heart was pounding.

Not steady. Not calm like his voice.

Fast. Then a skip. Then faster.

Huh.

Either the well scared him, or something else did.

I tipped my face up until my lips were almost touching his ear.

"Are you this sweet to every girl?" I whispered.

His arm went still.

On screen, someone was crying. Neither of us looked.

"I've never brought anyone to see a movie." He swallowed. I felt it. "I always go alone."

I laughed into his shoulder.

He didn't let go of me until the credits.

---

It was almost two when we walked out. The parking lot was empty except for his Jeep and a red pickup idling under the only working light.

He was still holding my hand. I was still letting him.

The pickup doors opened.

Three guys climbed out. Big. Letter jackets, green and gold. One of them had a bottle hanging from his fingers.

"Well, look at that," the one in front said. "Number seven."

Weston's grip on me changed. Tighter.

"Hey, Brody," he said. "Go home."

"Ridgemont doesn't go home." Brody's words ran together. "Ridgemont was supposed to make the playoffs. Remember? Till you ran that fake on fourth and two."

"It was a good fake."

"It was a *cheap* fake." The second guy laughed. "This your girlfriend? She know you're a cheat?"

"She's not part of this."

"Everybody's part of this, man." Brody tossed the bottle. It shattered by my feet. "Hey, sweetheart. Want a ride with some real players?"

Weston stepped in front of me. All the way in front. His back blocked out the light.

"Calla." He didn't turn his head. "Keys are in my left pocket. Take them. Get in the car and lock it."

"Weston—"

"Run."

His voice wasn't easy anymore. It was flat and hard.

Brody swung first.

Weston ducked it like he'd been waiting all night. He drove his shoulder into Brody's stomach and dropped him on the asphalt. The second guy grabbed his hoodie. Weston twisted, slammed an elbow back, and the guy folded over, wheezing. The third one hesitated half a second too long. Weston hit him once, clean, in the jaw.

Three bodies on the ground. One of them groaning. One of them crying a little.

It took maybe fifteen seconds.

Weston turned around, chest heaving, knuckles split.

I hadn't moved an inch.

"You didn't run," he said.

"You didn't need me to."

He stared at me under that buzzing yellow light. And something in his face slipped.

The smooth thing. The watching thing. The look he'd worn in the library, in the dining hall, at the car door when he counted his seconds. It just dropped away.

What was left was raw. Wide-eyed. Like he was seeing me for the first time and couldn't believe I was real.

Nobody had ever looked at me like that.

And that's when the thought came. Quiet. Sharp. Dangerous.

*What if it wasn't fake?*

What if I made Weston fall for me. Really fall. Hard enough that he forgot whose side he was on. Hard enough that Camden picked up the phone one night and his best friend didn't answer.

Camden wanted to take something from me.

I could take something back.

The idea tasted sweet. Too sweet.

"Your hand's bleeding," I said.

"Is it?" He didn't look at it. He was looking at my mouth.

Behind him, Brody rolled over and swore at the sky.

I stepped closer. One step. Then another. His breathing went shallow. I tilted my chin up, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his skin, close enough that one more inch would end it.

He leaned down.

I stopped.

A breath away. Our lips not touching. Not yet.

"Thanks for the movie," I whispered.

Then I turned and walked toward the Jeep.

One step. Two.

His fingers closed around my wrist.

He spun me back so fast my hair whipped across my face, and before I could say a word, his mouth was on mine.

Hard. Hungry. A little desperate.

This time, I didn't pull away.