The Switch

Chapter 4

Greyson

High school football.

A contact sport where kids smash into each other, breaking bones and bruising flesh, because it's the only way they're allowed to lose control around here and face zero consequences. I used to believe that it was all about winning, but it's not. It's about the moment when the chaos starts to feel honest, and familiar. When everything else fades and the only thing that you care about is how hard you can hit.

Up until this year, I never cared enough to engage in anything sports-like.

Ithan and Abel both play basketball to keep their fathers off their backs, and Lincoln, on the other hand, bounces from sport to sport, depending on whatever fits his personality for the season. This year, it's hockey. Freshman year, it was Lacrosse. Sophomore and Junior year, he was committed, as he likes to call it, to soccer.

As for me, I never bothered with any of it. I showed up to their games more out of boredom than anything else, but I never saw the appeal. I didn't get the idea of throwing yourself into something just to bleed for it.

Not until a few months ago, when I drunkenly lost a bet against Lincoln.

My punishment? Join a sport of his choosing. And because he's the kind of person to play games and make sure only he knows and understands the rules, he naturally chose this town's most beloved pastime— football.

Classic sadist move, but because a bet is a bet, I had no choice but to see it through, even though I couldn't care less about the game, its rules, or the people who worship it. I hadn't expected to even make it past try-outs, much less actually enjoy the game.

Football isn't bad. I'm good at it, it keeps me occupied, and who wouldn't take up the chance to knock a few heads together every Friday night? It's a socially acceptable way to channel all the rage building inside of me, and no one bats an eye when you leave the field bruised but satisfied.

And, more importantly, it's a good cover up for the bruises I get from somewhere else. Before football, I would deliberately get into fights the day of or after an argument with my father.

Now, they either assume the black eyes and split lips come from football or just me being a fuckup.

I was cool with that.

I tug my helmet off, shaking out my damp hair as I grab my phone, swiping through the notifications that have stacked over the last hour.

Linc: Where the fuck are you, Alister?

Ithan: He's at practice, fuckface.

Linc: Enough with the name-calling. I'm just checking in on my pride and joy. Do you have a problem with that?

Ithan: Will you have a problem when I put my foot up your ass?

Linc: Sounds kinky, so probably not.

Abel: Ladies, ffs. Are we meeting at the circuit or what?

Linc: If Greyson answers his phone, sure.

I can't help the smirk that pulls at my lips as I type back my reply.

Greyson: Yea, we're still meeting. 10:30.

Rhythmic chants hit my ears before I can read the new messages coming in, and I look up, following the sound to the cheer squad across the field.

"Damn," I grit my teeth at the sound of Jude Bromwell's voice. "Look at those legs, bro." He elbows his friend, suddenly pointing, and I follow his line of sight to where Ivy Trent stands at the center of her squad.