Chapter 47: The Big Four

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The moment Nolan reached Amy and Naomi, both girls lowered their heads.

Prom night had been an accident.

That was the cleanest word for it.

They had been in the pool with Nolan, drinking and trying to feel older than they were. Nolan drank more than he should, but not enough to stop knowing what he was doing.

Amy and Naomi had gone with him to the same room because of the crowd’s noise, the alcohol, and the small private feelings they had both been carrying.

All three of them were eighteen. That did not make it romantic. It only made it adult enough to be their mistake.

Whatever happened had been reckless, adult, and mutual. All three remembered enough to be embarrassed and amused, even if none of them knew what to do with the aftershock.

Even now, the aftershock of that night made it hard for them to throw themselves fully into training.

They regretted parts of it. Of course they did. It had nothing to do with the soft, private romance either of them had pictured.

After Nolan publicly declared Katherine his girlfriend, neither Amy nor Naomi knew what came next. They would still see him around school. The awkwardness had nowhere to go.

"You both look good in uniform," Nolan said.

Naomi kept tugging her cheer top back into place. Amy’s dark curls framed warm, expressive features.

The last time Amy tutored Nolan, she had driven a late-model Porsche 911 Cabriolet with bohemian trinkets hanging and tucked everywhere. The jewelry in the car matched the necklaces and earrings she wore. It was not a family errand car.

Naomi lived in the same kind of neighborhood.

Two rich girls. Two very complicated memories.

"Thank you," Amy said, blushing.

"Nolan..." Naomi lifted her head. "About that night. Sorry."

"After this..." Amy hesitated. They had talked privately about what they should do.

"After this, you keep tutoring me in Spanish," Nolan said before she could finish.

"What? We cannot do that."

Amy shook her head immediately.

That night had been an accident. If she and Naomi kept meeting Nolan, what were they supposed to do? Fight over him? Pretend nothing happened? He had a girlfriend now.

Nolan was about to answer when a sharp voice cut in.

"New girls. Who gave you permission to talk alone with football players during practice?"

Sarah Michelle Gellar stood over Amy and Naomi with her arms folded. Her two friends flanked her.

"You do not interfere with my squad," Sarah said, then looked at Nolan. "And you do not interfere with our training."

"Warning number one," the girl on Sarah’s right said in a thin, overdone voice. "No chatting during training."

"It is a break," Amy said quietly.

"Breaks are part of training," the girl on Sarah’s left snapped. "And since you are new, let me introduce someone. This is Sarah Michelle Gellar, working actress, campus star, and captain of the BHHS cheer squad. Why are you sitting there? Say captain."

"Captain," Amy and Naomi said, neither with any strength.

Sarah lifted her chin and turned away.

The entire exchange lasted half a minute.

Nolan’s skin still crawled.

It felt like every petty queen-bee hierarchy from another life had put on a cheer skirt.

He stood, walked to Grace, and gave the coach a concise report.

Grace crossed the field immediately.

Then she pinched Sarah by the ear and pulled her upright.

"Sarah Michelle Gellar. Bullying rookies again?"

"Coach, I-"

"You three stay after practice tonight," Grace said coldly. "Extra drills."

Amy and Naomi saw Sarah punished and could not help laughing. They nodded toward Nolan in silent thanks.

The brief interruption ended. Football and cheer both returned to work.

...

"Eric Barrera," Thomas said, standing before the offense with his notes. "Santa Ana’s quarterback and team leader. Fifty touchdown passes this season, first in the Orange County League. That does not include NHSFL regional play."

He pointed to the next name.

"Roberto Garcia. Running back. Their scoring engine and the center of the offense. Two thousand six hundred forty-seven rushing yards this season. Orange County single-season record."

Next.

"Elvis Coronado. Wide receiver. Speed threat. Explosive playmaker. Thirty-one touchdown catches and multiple long scoring runs after the catch."

Last.

"Alberto Rodriguez. Defensive end. Their anchor. He has twenty-nine sacks or tackles for loss, plus nine forced turnovers. Another county record. Nolan, he is the one who can ruin your day."

Thomas lowered the sheet.

"Those four are Santa Ana’s core. Last year, all four made the West Coast all-star group. They have played together since middle school. Do not treat them like four separate stars. Treat them like one organism."

The room stayed quiet.

"I watched film all night and broke down their tendencies. We start targeted simulations now."

...

In Santa Ana’s locker room, Elvis Coronado tossed a copy of the Los Angeles Times onto the table.

"This guy is funny."

The front page of the sports section carried a photograph of a young quarterback giving a thumbs-up.

The headline was impossible to miss.

NEW BEVERLY HILLS QUARTERBACK READY TO PUT SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA’S POWERHOUSE ON NOTICE

"Circus clown," Eric Barrera said.

The pale-faced quarterback flicked a dart across the room. It landed in the forehead of the pinup on the opposite wall.

"I think he is funny," Roberto Garcia said. "At least more interesting than Adam."

The running back tilted his head back and swallowed a handful of pills: vitamins, supplements, and a few things that lived in the gray spaces between medicine and performance.

Some of his treatment involved testosterone compounds. According to a local doctor’s file, Roberto suffered from a rare hypothalamic disorder and required periodic synthetic hormone support.

Santa Ana had many unlucky players.

Rheumatoid issues. Asthma. Joint inflammation. Recovery problems. Medical notes that seemed to produce steroids exactly where a roster most needed them.

The locker-room door opened.

Alberto Rodriguez walked in wearing only shorts. He was bald, Black, and built with startling muscular density, his thighs nearly as thick as a smaller player’s waist. Veins stood out beneath his skin, even at the temples, giving his face a hard, swollen intensity.

"Your injections," he said. "They are ready."

The defensive end noticed the newspaper on the table. He picked it up.

"Where are you going?" Elvis asked.

"Bathroom."

Alberto shrugged.

"Need something to read."

The others laughed.

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