“Look, I would help if I could, but I can’t. I have to be at work in—” I check my watch. “Twenty-five minutes. The game doesn’t even start for another two hours.”

“Call in.”

I shake my head. “No. My boss has been on my case for being late, and if I call in, I’m positive he’ll fire me.”

“Only if you don’t have a good excuse.” He motions for my phone. “Hand it over. I’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“Call in sick for you.”

I hold my phone protectively out of his reach. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Trust me, I’m a professional slacker, short stack. I got this.”

“No.”

Rolling his eyes, he takes out his own phone. “Cluck You, right? I have that place on speed dial for when I have the munchies.”

Of course he does.

He brings his cell to his ear. “Does your dad talk funny too?”

“I don’t talk funny, asshole.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He clears his throat. “Hey, y’all, this here is Mr. Church calling on behalf of my offspring Sawyer. There’s been an emergency and I need to speak to the person in charge right away.”

My mouth drops open. Not only is his attempt at a southern accent terrible, he sounds like a dumbass.

“What’s that?” he questions. “Yes, I’ll hold. But make it snappy, dang it. The cow’s getting out of the barn again.”

Oh. My. God.

“We don’t have a cow,” I hiss.

He cups the phone. “You do now—Hello there, Mr. G. This is Sawyer’s daddy. I’m calling to tell you she won’t be able to make it into work tonight. There’s been an emergency over yonder on our farm.”

It’s safe to assume if one doesn’t own a cow, one probably doesn’t own a farm, either, but not in Oakley’s imaginary little world.

“What kind of emergency?” Oakley repeats, looking at me. “Bessie…she’s been…shot.” There’s a long pause, and then.

“Bessie…our cow.”

Oh, for the love of God.

I’m seriously regretting not doing this myself.

“Yup. We had to put the ol’ girl down after she attacked Sawyer this afternoon.” Oakley smiles at me, looking mighty pleased with himself. “The doctor said she’s a little banged up, but he’s hopeful she’ll make a full recovery by tomorrow.” His voice takes on a somber tone. “Too bad the same can’t be said for our poor Bessie.”

No way in hell will Mr. Gonzales buy any of this.

Oakley nods solemnly. “I appreciate your condolences. I’ll let Sawyer know. Take care, sir.” He presses the red button on his cell and shrugs. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

“A cow?” I grit through my teeth.

He holds up his hands. “What? You said you didn’t have one, so I got rid of it. Plus, that dead cow got you not one, but two nights off. He was very sympathetic about ol’ Bessie’s tragic passing.”

Glaring at him, I gesture to Izzy. “Where’s the rest of him?”

“In the trunk.”

Exasperation climbs up my chest as I dig around my purse for my bottle of Adderall. “Do you have anything to drink?”

Oakley fetches a water bottle from his car. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, but we have two hours before the game starts.” I take the water bottle from him and pop a pill in my mouth. “Which means there’s still plenty of time for us to study and do homework.”

Chapter 28

Sawyer

Nerves gnaw at my stomach as I—make that, Izzy—walks down the hallway.

I’m supposed to go out onto the field with the cheerleaders, but since they’re in the locker room, and expect me to be a ninth grade boy under this getup, it’s off limits.

I crane my neck as I round the corner, hoping I don’t bump into anyone. Oakley’s measurements were definitely off, because I’m about five inches too short to see out of this stupid thing. Fortunately, the toothy grin plastered on Izzy’s face is made out of mesh material, so I’ve been peering through that.

Scott told Oakley he wasn’t supposed to speak or do anything to give away his identity while in uniform—which is fine by me because everyone at this school already makes fun of me enough.

I’m about to walk into the library to kill some time before the game when a deep voice shouts my name.

Well, not my name. Izzy’s.

Squinting, I try my best to see who the voice belongs to, but to my horror, I spot a group of guys in Knights jerseys.

Crap.

I back up, but it’s too late. The football players start cheering Izzy’s name in unison.

“Izzy, Izzy, Izzy!!”

Right before they start running.

Fuck. My. Life.

I hold on to my fake head for dear life as two thick arms wrap around my waist and I’m hoisted off the ground.

“Damn, boy,” someone who sounds a lot like Dwight says. “You been hitting the gym?”

Clearly.

“Yeah, buddy,” someone else calls out as they stand next to Dwight and I’m set up on their shoulders. “He’s been working on those gains.”

“You ready to watch us crush the Bears tonight, Iz?” another person shouts as they proceed to march down the hallway.

I’m pretty sure it’s Lennox.

Since I’m supposed to be full of school spirit, I reach down and give him a high-five.

That only riles the group up more and the two idiots holding me bounce me up and down on their shoulders.

“Izzy! Izzy!”

Dear God, make it stop.

A groan of irritation lodges in my throat as we crash through the doors of the boys’ locker room.

It’s the last place I want to be. Bad shit happens here.

Like Cole…

My brain temporarily checks out when I spot him by his locker.

He’s wearing silver skintight pants that showcase his round, muscular ass, and the top half of him is completely bare.

I’m suddenly grateful for the fake head I’m wearing because my jaw falls open as I take in his lean, cut frame complete with six-pack abs.

And his sharp V.

Dear God in Heaven that V of his is what the angels sing about.

He’s so gorgeous it almost physically aches to look at him.

“You okay, Izzy?” someone asks.

Izzy is fine…Sawyer, on the other hand.

She’s screwed.

“Put Izzy down,” Cole barks as he puts on a shirt and maneuvers into some plastic shell looking thing. “It’s time to get ready and focus.”

I’m grateful when they all do what he says…until some of them begin stripping.

My cheeks heat as I get an eye-full of penis.

Different sizes, different colors, different shapes.

For a girl who’s only seen one in real life…it’s overwhelming.

And underwhelming depending which way I look.

On the bright side, I can officially answer Bianca’s question regarding Lennox.

Dude is hung like a fucking horse.