Free Every Last Promise by Kristin Halbrook Page A

flag. Just missed.”
    â€œAre you okay, Kayla?” Mrs. Armstrong asks me.
    I stand and brush myself off, moving my ankle in a slow circle until I’m sure I can put my weight on it without limping. A few yards away, Maria watches me, a hard line formed by her mouth, and I get it. She picked me because she knows I’ll do whatever it takes to win. To belong again.
    I nod and suck in a quick breath between my teeth. “I’m fine.”
    â€œKayla Martin with a gain of eighteen yards.” A voice comes over the PA system. “First down at the thirty-two.”
    I wipe my hands on my shorts and take my place on my team’s side of scrimmage again. The grass is thick but trimmed short. I stare at it until I catch my breath, then I raise my gaze and lock eyes with Jen.
    Bring it.
    The afternoon marches on in a blurring series of plays that leave Jen and me both on the ground. Mrs. Armstrong’s whistle hardly takes a rest. The spectators have caught on to something happening and the loudest cheers come when Jen or I have added another injury to our bodies. A bruise in herribs from my elbow. A scrape across my chin from a well-timed trip that sends me flying across the grass.
    But neither of us asks for a truce. We’re settling a score and I’m hell-bent on coming out on top.
    My team is behind by one touchdown at the eight yard line with four minutes to go in the last quarter, and I’m ready to tie it up. Maria’s been running the ball the last few plays, but as we huddle, she says, “Get open, Kayla. And don’t you dare drop the ball.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    I line up across from Jen. She looks tired. Her knees are an angry shade of pink. Raw. I’ve stopped feeling pain—anything—in my bad ankle.
    â€œHike!”
    I dash by the girls battling at the line of scrimmage, then shoot across them on the diagonal, throwing everything I have into this burst of speed. I see Maria pull her arm back and ready myself for the pass. As the ball soars through the air, someone tugs on my braid. My head snaps backward. I spin, keeping my feet under my body, my hands still clamoring for the football. The flash of Jen’s ponytail whipping toward me hides her fist.
    Five hard knuckles connect with my cheek with a cracking sound. Finally, I go down. The football lands harmlessly in the end zone and rolls away.
    Mrs. Armstrong’s whistle goes ballistic. My teammatesyell and gesture angrily. The crowd is wild, stomping in the stands. My face throbs. Blood trickles from my nose to my mouth. I wipe it away with the back of my hand.
    â€œWhat is going on here?” Mrs. Armstrong yells, running over.
    Jen holds her arm out to me. Her brown eyes are hard but a little glassy, too. I’m not the only one smarting. “This field is really slick.”
    I clasp my fingers around her wrist and she hauls me to my feet.
    â€œWe keep slipping,” I agree breathlessly. Because that’s the way things are done. I accept this beating, and it’s proof of my dedication to her. To her brother. To this town.
    â€œYou have to go off the field until the bleeding stops,” Mrs. Armstrong instructs me. I can tell she wants to say something else, but before she can, the crowd’s noise rises to a height we haven’t heard yet.
    We all look to the sidelines. Jay Brewster strides onto the field, followed by half the football team’s starting lineup. He’s giving everyone his signature aw-shucks grin, running a hand through his blond hair, tossing a football casually up and down. People start descending out of the stands to crowd around and cheer on the football heroes. The guys give each other friendly punches in the shoulders, clasp fists, and chest-bump. They start to spread out across the field. And even though we have the field until seven, we knowthey’re here to claim their territory.
    Jen and I are the first to look away from the boys. Our