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are these awesome athletes.”
     
    “Not all of us,” a brother I don’t remember the name of—lean, tall, handsome, and sporting a great pair of spectacles—says. Leaning against the van, he offers me a wave and a smile. “Anthony,” he introduces, “and I want nothing to do with sports outside of watching it. It’s science for me.”
     
    Thinking about my grades in that particular subject, I wince. “Let me guess, top of your class?”
     
    “You bet.”
     
    “See? Wheaties!”
     
    Male laughter circles me. I’m in an alternate universe.
     
    Walking to the driver’s side, Matthew waves me into the passenger seat. “Get in.”
     
    Anthony, who’s closest to the door, opens it for me.
     
    I glance at my aunt’s house, my gaze on the second floor where my mother rests. She’s usually up before me, but I’d disturbed her sleep the night before.
     
    “Seriously,” Christopher grumbles, “I’m in a hurry!”
     
    I hop into the van. It smells like dirt, rust, and men’s body wash. Cracked leather protests beneath me, the ragged edges pinching my bottom through my jeans.
     
    Matthew pulls the vehicle away from the curb, and I spend the entire ride listening to the Moretti brothers.
     
    “Just stay quiet, nod a lot, and let Gipson do all of the talking,” Matthew advises, glancing at Christopher in the rearview mirror. “And try not to look so nervous. You’re strangling your shirt back there.”
     
    Christopher grimaces. “What do you know about Gipson anyway? You play under Crowley.”
     
    Matthew clicks on the turn signal and heads right. “Got friends on the football team. Those guys bitch more than we do.”
     
    Anthony snorts, pushes his glasses up, and pretends he didn’t just agree with Matthew.
     
    Christopher scowls. “You got something to say, Tony?”   
     
    Matthew glances at me. “Christopher is the hot headed one in the family.”
     
    “Whatever, man!”
     
    Anthony throws me an apologetic grin, shrugs, and stares out the window.
     
    I’m missing something, and it feels big. “I’ve heard Gipson is hard to play for. That his training is hardcore, and he’s incredibly selective,” I mumble. “Makes sense that they’d complain.”
     
    “Ha! See there!” Christopher leans back in his seat, appeased.
     
    I’ve garnered Matthew’s attention. “Where did you hear that?”
     
    That’s the thing. People at school don’t know anything about me because I don’t let them. Only Gracie knows anything, and I even hold back with her.
     
    I gesture at my ears. “You can hear better today.”
     
    “Thanks to me,” Anthony cuts in, grinning. “I did my science thing.”
     
    “Don’t gloat too much,” Matthew warns. “I’m not holding out hope for them. These things have a terrible track record.” Glancing back at me, he studies my profile. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that.”
     
    “Notice what?” Christopher asks.
     
    “The subject change,” Matthew replies, eyes flicking from me to the road.  
     
    I stare at my hands.
     
    “So, Gipson?” he asks. “How do you know about him?”
     
    The athletes at Heart Bay High are incredibly loyal to their coaches. They only complain amongst themselves.
     
    “Reagan?”
     
    Throwing him a pleading look, I keep my mouth shut. But it registers. Oh, it definitely registers.
     
    The school looms into view, and Matthew parks the van. Christopher and Anthony, recognizing the tension in the vehicle, rush to get out, closing the doors behind them.
     
    Matthew studies me. “You’ve dated someone on the team.” It’s not a question.
     
    “Don’t,” I warn.
     
    He glances out the front windshield. Sun glints off of the cars in the parking lot. Doors slam. People call out to each other, little frost babies born from their lips before vanishing. I envy the frost babies.
     
    “Does he still go here?” Matthew asks.
     
    “No.”
     
    Reaching for me, he squeezes my shoulder.