6.

"I guess things are pretty okay at Pinewood high so far," I said, holding my phone near my mouth.

"I think I'm actually gettin' used to crowd—"

I got punished for my optimistic words immediately. A guy with a massive set of shoulders bumped into me on the pathway leading to the football field.

"—kinda gettin' used to it," I corrected myself.

"Anyway, I finished the wild horses painting for Chiara. She wanted to put it on the wall immediately while Dad insisted he did it to help her. They're almost disgustingly cute sometimes. Kinda awkward standin' next to it. Oh, speakin' of awkward, my whole grade knows I'm gay but I haven't gotten any crap for it."

I skirted off the path towards a cluster of trees and gently knocked on one of them to ward off misfortunate.

"Yet. People here just don't seem to care, not even if I want to join the football team. There's gay varsity jocks. And now I'm on my way to tryout for the football team so who knows, I might become one of those. Talk to you guys later"

I ended the recording and pressed send to Jenny, Taylor, and my mom. They wanted all the updates from my life in the big city, and to be honest, I was happy to share. Venting was nice. While I already loved certain aspects of the city like how being openly gay was much less of an issue here than back home, Pinewood high was still kind of uncomfortable like a new pair of shoes. I'd have to walk a few miles more before it'd fit better.

Oh, God, miles. I strongly hoped they wouldn't make us run literal miles at the football tryouts. I'd die.

Actually, it seemed like I was going to die, anyway. There were a couple of very huge football guys waiting on that field. If any of them body slammed me, it'd be all over.

Corey squinted and then waved at me. "Turner!" he yelled. "Over here!"

There went my plan of  u-turning and making up some excuse why I wasn't there tomorrow.

I trudged onto the field towards Corey. Dad curtly nodded at me but didn't pay me any further attention. I understood. As a coach, he couldn't treat his son any differently from a stranger.

The rule didn't seem to apply to stepsons, however. Dad leaned closer to Atticus and muttered something to him under his breath. I averted my eyes and turned to Corey.

"So, you, the quarterback still has to try out?" I asked him. "I though you were already on the varsity team."

"Oh, it's never entirely set in stone," Corey replied, rolling his head and shoulders, as if preparing himself for a fight. "It's more a formality than a tryout for most varsity guys. Actually, in general tryouts are more of a formality because nearly everyone who wants to play makes one of the teams. So hey, don't look so worried man, you'll be fine."

Corey patted my back, nearly knocking the wind out out of me.

I grimaced. "If the tackles in this game are anythin' similar to your back pats I will not be fine."

Corey threw his head back laughing like he thought I was kidding. Then, Dad whistled and made us all run a few laps to warm up. Oh, did I say 'warm up'? I actually meant some sort of crazy who-has-the-largest-dick sprinting competition. I wheezed like a dying giraffe after half a lap and watched Atticus, Corey, and the other varsity jocks fight it out, until Dad sharply blew his whistle and made them behave.

Dad had sharp eyes, too. He lived up to his miracle coach reputation. Just from watching us do laps and throw the ball back and forth a few times, he was able to assign us into teams based on ability. I was obviously put in one of the bottom of the barrel group with other zero experience people.

Some of them were worse than zero experience. One guy in particular had the most unfortunate set of traits for sports I'd ever seen: huge, clumsy, and utterly unaware of both facts. I almost winced when we were split into smaller groups again, and he was in mine.

"We need one more guy here..." Dad muttered under his breath. "Atticus! Come over here."

Atticus complied, but not happily. He dragged his feet as he jogged. Dad patted his back. "I want to see a quick two on three passing drill. You can explain it, yes?"

I saw Atticus' chest rise and drop as he sighed, but he nodded. Dutifully, he turned to us.

"Alright, you're with me," he told the big, clumsy  guy. "We are the defensive backs. One linebacker in the middle, two receivers on each side. On my signal the two receives run three-step slant routed over the middle and the ball is thrown to one of the two receivers. No tackles from the defensive backs. Just hand contact."

Atticus clapped his hands and everyone immediately went to their designated spot. It seemed like I was the only one completely confused by the rapid instructions. Oh, right, I was also the only one who never bothered to learn the rules of football, deciding it'd be alright to learn on the go.

I hesitated before mimicking a short, stocky guy. Seems like I was the left side receiver... covered by the huge klutz. Though, if Atticus was the one covering me I stood even less of a chance. Atticus could probably win this game on his own. Literally. Even when up against all of the beginners at once.

... Wait, what were the winning conditions again? What was I supposed to do if I got the ball?

The whistle sounded. Stocky guy started running, and I mimicked what he did again half a second later. Apparently correctly as nobody was yelling 'what the fuck are you doing?'

I saw the ball fly my way in my peripheral vision and then it nearly hit me smack in the face. Actually, it did hit me in the face. I just happened to awkwardly 'capture' it between my hand and face.

I slowed my pace and for a second, just a second, looked down to properly nestle  the ball in my arms.

Big mistake.

When I looked up again, my life flashed by before my eyes. The huge guy was stampeding towards me, flailing and threshing. There was no way he'd be able to stop himself before he'd splat me like a fly on a window. As if in slow motion I saw his expression turn from determination to wide-eyed horrification as he seemed to realise it, too.

I braced myself for the inevitable rib-breaking impact. There was a groan, a crash, and I fell on my leg, shoulder, and elbow.

We weren't a pile of two. We were a pile of three. And I wasn't the one in pain.

" I told you: no. Tackles."

Atticus' eyes were spitting fire as he rolled onto his right shoulder and then got to his feet.  The klutz looked down like a beat puppy.

"Sorry dude," he stammered.

"It's alright," I replied pushing myself to my feet too.

I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or Atticus, but come on.  Who could stay mad at a huge guy who had no idea how to use his size and looked like a beaten puppy?

Atticus, apparently. He was less lenient.

"Back to the start line," he barked. His brow was still creased as he watched the guy jog back to the starting position.

"You alright, Bruno?" Dad yelled. Atticus stuck up a hand and nodded, but I saw his elbow was bleeding. Chafed on the rough ground as he took the brunt of the hit.

"Hey, thanks," I told Atticus quietly. Even if he didn't want to talk to me, he did a nice thing so I was still going to thank him.

Atticus' brows were still knitted, but they changed from an angry knitting to a confused kind. His lips parted, then pressed together and he shrugged.

"You should've kept running when that other guy was on the ground. You would've won," he said curtly, already turning to walk away.

I followed him, keeping the distance between us small enough so I could lower my voice.

"I'm not tryin' to replace you or anything. With my dad, I mean. I'm going to live with Mom once she gets into town."

Atticus looked at me over his shoulder. His eyebrows conveyed utter confusion now. "What?"

Mandy's theory was clearly wrong. Atticus wasn't jealous. I should've known since he had absolutely no reason to be jealous.

I shook my head. "Never mind that. Look, we're livin' in the same house. And we will be livin' there together for at least a month or two. Can we be civil with each other? Just say a normal hello in the mornings or somethin'. That's all I'm askin', normal."

Atticus stared off into the distance over my shoulder, then straight ahead. "Yeah. Okay," he grumbled, much to my surprise.

I hadn't even expected him to admit he was acting exaggeratedly hostile with me.

Then again, maybe he was acting his version of civil already.

Because while I knew very little about football, I was pretty sure players didn't usually block tackles meant for a player of the opposite team.