Prologue

Bella

So, this is Christmas?

I’m crumpled up in a shower curtain, naked and near death, wondering just how much of my cooch my arch-nemesis saw.

Funny, from the first day I met Drew McCallister, I knew he'd be my downfall; I just didn’t realize this was how it would go.

Fire and ice. Tulle and dirt. We've always been opposites and competing for the same thing: my father's attention. Unfortunately for me, Drew could make a fifty-yard pass before his voice broke and became my dad's little pet project at the ripe old age of thirteen. Me? I wanted nothing more than to be the apple of my father's eye, but more often than not, I became the rotted core, left lying on the grass covered in maggots.

The cold tile prickles against my back, a taunting reminder I'm in Drew's house and need his help to get up. Every ounce of my dignity is gone, fallen away with the towel lying next to me. There's nowhere to go from here, so maybe I should just accept my fate and drown in this bathtub.

Is this the worst day of my life?

No.

The worst day of my life was when I met Drew because if it weren't for that day, none of this would have happened.

Screw that day, and screw Drew McCallister.

8 Years Ago

That Day

Tasting the warm summer air, I revel in the feeling of the spongy grass beneath my feet, pushing me to my destiny as I run through the quiet park. My heart beats fast, I feel euphoric, and it's not because of the endorphins; it's because I finally have my father's attention.

Most summer days, his time is divided between my mom, sister, football training, and me.

Not today.

Today is my day.

My mom took Caity to ballet camp, and football practice doesn't start for another two weeks, so the only thing Dad can focus on is me.

Sprinkles of morning dew splash across my ankles, and my grin grows wider as I push myself harder than ever.

“Keep going, Belly,” my dad hollers from across the field, holding his phone to time my pace. My scrawny legs pound against the dirt, and I focus on the playground ahead. Two steel fence posts are calling my name. All I need to do is get to them.

This run feels different. Nothing is holding me back, and I'm determined to beat my personal best.

I'm going to do it.

I'm going to beat my best time, and Dad is going to love me for it.

My heart rate spikes with each press of my foot because I'm so close.

Reaching my hand out, the metal of the pole shines in front of me. All I need to do is touch it.

Keep going, Belly.

My dad's words echo in my brain, and my heart stops when I feel the cool metal grazing against my fingertips.

Thwack.

Pain.

That's all I feel. A pounding pain ricochets through my head like a lightning bolt, and I can't think straight. Falling to the ground with an almighty thud, I twist my ankle. My teeth chatter when my chin spikes into the mud, and no matter how much I swallow, I can’t get the metallic taste of blood out of my mouth.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

Soft steps make their way to me. Too soft to be my father’s, probably because he’s too busy calling an ambulance.

“Are you okay?” An easy-going voice plays in my ear as I lie on the grass, bathing in embarrassment. His voice is the only thing keeping me grounded, and when I turn onto my back, a football rolls next to me, kissing my cheek.

“I'm sorry. I was using the playground fence as my crossbar. And you ran so fast; I didn't see you coming.”

Crossbar? He was playing football. Football?! I shouldn't be surprised that, yet again, the only thing standing in the way of my dad noticing me is football. I can only dream of one day living in a place where it doesn't exist, and my dad has no choice but to love me as much as he loves that stupid sport.

When I look up at the perpetrator, ready to yell, I lose my breath.

Butterscotch hair, brown eyes, and an awkward wince glance down at me with sorrow.

Has Cupid struck me with his arrow?

He's the most beautiful boy I've ever seen.

I'm smitten.

The world has stopped.

Justin Bieber could walk by, and I wouldn't care because every crush that came before this boy ceased to exist.

“Nice throw.” My dad's voice cuts through the cartoon love music playing in my head like a sledgehammer through brick. He slaps my beau on his back and looks at him with appreciation. The same appreciation I've been looking for. “Your technique is impressive. Do you play football?”

The pain from the fall completely drains from my body, replaced with the pain of my father finding a way to somehow ignore me, yet again.

The boy glances between my father and me before answering. “Only when I'm out here, and no one else is around.” He scuffs his old shoes against the grass, not making eye contact with my dad.

“You know, you throw like a young Joe Montana.”

The boy scratches his head, looking bashful, and I want to crawl into the rabbit hole I avoided earlier and die. My dad showed more concern about the boy's throw than my potential injury.

I sit up, rubbing my head furiously because I already feel a lump growing there.

“Daddy,” I whine, hoping he will finally acknowledge me.

Dad gives me a double take before falling to his knees to help me up. As I stand on shaky legs, I spit out the excess dirt and wipe the blades of grass off my face. My shorts and t-shirt are covered in mud, and I'm certain the burning sensation running down my elbows is because I've grazed them, but my dad doesn't check for any injuries because he's too busy staring at the butterscotch dream in front of him. “Aw, you're okay, Belly.” He smiles, waving off my pain as nothing more than a minor inconvenience to his impromptu scouting mission.

“Belly,” the boy whispers, barely audible, but I hear it because something about his voice calms me.

“Too bad you fell. You nearly beat your best time,” my dad says without remorse, before turning back to the boy. “So, I'm guessing you don't play for a team?”

I turn on my heel with an eye roll. Typical. Our first day out together in months, and I have been completely pushed into the background by football. I don't bother looking back at their interaction; I already know we’ll be here for the next few hours while my dad tries to recruit this boy for my high school team.

Trudging into the playground, I sigh as I sit on the swings. Maybe if I make the track team and show some athletic ability, he'll finally take an interest in me. I just wish I didn't play second fiddle to football all the time.

Once a coach, always a coach, I guess.

I watch my foot against the black tarmac as I swing from side to side, waiting for this to end. It's still early in the morning, so the only voices I can hear are my dad's and the boy's. My dad is selling the benefits of my soon-to-be high school and talking about how they could use an arm like his on the team, even offering to help him apply for a scholarship.

All because he threw a ball accurately at his daughter's head.

Leaning my forehead against the swing chain, I can feel the spongy fluid from the bump under my skin press against the cool metal.

Great.

So not only have I lost my father's attention, but I also now have a bump the size of a small Tesla growing on my head.

I glance at my dad and am taken aback by what I see. The boy is watching me, completely ignoring my father's glare. His intense brown eyes stare at me , and at first, there's a small hope that maybe it's because Cupid struck him with his arrow too. He spoke my name in a barely-there whisper, and although he blinked a few times, he's not turning away. He wants me to know he’s looking. Maybe there's something else going on between us?

Could this be my first real love?

But then, a pounding pain brings me back to reality. It's August, not February, so Cupid's on a break, and I'm not living in some cheesy Hallmark Christmas movie. The boy must be looking at the bright red lump living on my head.

“You’d be a great addition to the team, son.”

Son?

SON?!

He’s known this boy for ten minutes, and he’s already calling him son. It’s like he’s completely forgotten that his actual daughter is sitting here begging for his attention. I don’t matter, though. What matters to my dad is getting this boy in my high school so we can win games – something they’ve been lacking over the last few years. What matters is bringing this boy into my high school, my territory, my life, to take even more of my father’s attention away from me .

I’m aware of how selfish I sound, but my dad’s been desperate to be the coach for St. Michael’s since I was born, and he’d do anything to make that happen. It’s the one defining characteristic I can remember about him at every age. He sang their fight song to me while I was in my mother’s belly. My first words were, ‘go Mike’s,’ and I wore their cheerleading uniform for my first five Halloween costumes. I’ve never had a moment with my dad that wasn’t related to football, and I wanted that so badly. Being the biggest part of his day just because we were together would make my life.

My fingers clench against the swing’s chains so hard that I swear I can feel them buckling under the pressure. My jaw tightens, and I slowly ground my molars as I watch my father slap the boy’s back and smile.

I’m angry, and I’m not afraid to admit it.

The boy is still looking directly at me. His hot gaze burns, and the searing pain in my forehead radiates through my body, reminding me just how stupid I look.

“What’s your name?”

I hate him.

Standing there in a raggedy St. Michael’s shirt with beautifully floppy hair, he’s the embodiment of everything I could never be. Of everything my father would always love just that little bit more.

“Drew McCallister.”

Drew McCallister.

Even his name sounds perfect as it spills out of his mouth, but it doesn’t matter how beautiful he is; he’s taken my father’s attention away, and for that, I will hate him with every fiber of my being for the rest of my life.

“I look forward to you joining our team.” The way my dad’s voice rises with excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning, annoys me. Although, I suppose today is better than Christmas in my dad’s warped world because finding a high school recruit gives him way more opportunity for success than any football-themed tie I’d buy him.

“I guess so,” Drew drawls out, and it’s in that moment of acceptance that I promise to make Drew’s life a living hell for every minute I’m forced to be in it.

Screw Cupid, and screw Drew McCallister.