“It’s fine, you’re fine. We won, babe. You won.”

The game had ended early, so we all went to the Pizza Barn half an hour sooner than usual.

I don’t know what I looked like when I came in, but everyone turned to stare at me with expressions like they knew that I’d just been told my dog had died.

Wug was fine as far as I knew, but Jake looked as if he needed to smash something. Dave Garcia prowled around, getting in the way of the busboy who was trying to clean up the back-room tables after some previous large group. Gogo Goff pulled Megan into a close conference, both of them glancing at me several times.

Lee twined an arm around mine and across my shoulders, whispering into my hair, “It’s fine, you’re fine. We won, babe. You won.”

I leaned on him. I didn’t remember anyone ever calling me “babe” before. I think I liked it, and it actually helped my mood. We took a booth in the corner while the staff rushed around, clearing trays and mugs and wiping down surfaces.

I got into the booth first, Lee sitting beside me with his bad leg out in the aisle. He leaned sideways and kissed me on the ear.

“Tickles,” I complained and turned my face up for another kiss—one that shivered through me like ice on the back of my neck. Damn, I thought again. Kissing Lee is so different from kissing Megan. I snuggled in with a wiggle, trying to collect another sample.

“Don’t monopolize Pete,” Dave Garcia said to Lee loudly. “Maybe some of the rest of us would like to kiss her, too.” He grinned, but Lee straightened up and glared at him.

“I don’t think so,” he said in a voice I’d never heard from him before. Not low and menacing or any kind of thug voice—just quietly certain—and dangerous.

I looked up at him and smiled. Lee didn’t have Jake or Dave’s mass, but he did physical therapy for an hour twice a day; he was as fit and strong as anyone in the room. He just wouldn’t win any races. I felt his flash of jealousy like warmth, and I giggled. For a moment, I almost forgot about the tragedy of winning a football game the wrong way.

Dave was on a roll. “Pete is scary! It’s Halloween tomorrow, and Pete has already scared the werewolves away.”

I frowned at him, but he was having fun. He waved his hands beside his head. “Woo! And the Wolfpack checks out!”

“We were winning,” said Matt Hopper. “We were beating them, and they couldn’t take it.” He nodded at me. “They used Pete being a girl as an excuse.”

He nodded firmly, and several others chimed in. “Quitters! Yeah.”

I made a sour face. I didn’t think the Wolfpack were quitters, exactly. They didn’t forfeit because they thought we were beating them, but because they didn’t think they could play football for fear of hurting me. And hadn’t my own team had a problem with that same thing during practice?

Lee squeezed my hand under the table. “Not your fault,” he said.

Dave continued. “They had to have known before the game started!” he announced. “We did that stupid skit where two,” he held up two fingers, “two cheerleaders joined the team!” He pointed at himself. “But they didn’t seem afraid of hurting me!” He did a fake cheer with his wrist bent and his ass in the air.

Everyone laughed, and I rolled my eyes at him. Maybe the skit had confused them, since Dave, with his hairy legs, was so obviously a ringer.

“They liked to play rough!” Jake shouted. “They got suspended last year and kicked out of their old league for it! They’re in our league on probation, and now they pull this! Cowards!”

Staff entered from the kitchen carrying jumbo pizzas and cups of soda on wide trays. Cheers went up from the players. Lee stood and snagged several slices for us before sitting back down. Coach Wilson and several other adults entered as the staffers retreated for more supplies.

“A win is a win!” Coach shouted. “Am I right?”

“Yeah!” several players shouted, the ones who weren’t cramming their faces full of pizza.

The noise level lifted the roof and dropped it back down amid roars of “Friendly Pride!” and “Lions! Rah!”

Wilson, after looking around for a minute before locating us, slid into the other side of our booth. “Oh, hey! Beef and peppers—can I steal a slice?”

We said sure, and we all took bites before Coach looked directly at me. “Pete!” he began, then changed gears. “Gayle… there are a lot of people who want to talk to you. News people, reporters.”

“Huh?” I said. “I didn’t do anything but play football. They should talk to the Wolves if they want the story of what happened.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Coach waved a hand. “Some of the newsies are probably chasing the Wolves’ bus back home.” He leaned over and snagged another slice of pizza. “But you’re a lot more photogenic than any werewolf I ever saw. Plus,” he added, “you are the story.”

“What if I don’t wanna?” I grumped.

Somebody hip‑bumped Coach to scoot over, and he made room for Brigitte, the woman from the local TV station, KLEO, Channel 17. She’d heard me and gave me a professional smile. “Better to get it done with someone you know, Pete,” she said. “Or do you prefer Gayle? Oh, I asked you that before—and since you’re wearing football colors, I’ll call you Pete, like everyone else.” Her smile widened.

Coach was looking at her sideways, and Lee was looking directly at her across the table, but both of them were clearly deferring to me to set the tone. I shrugged.

“The Phoenix stations are gonna want you for their weekend news, and LA will probably come calling for Monday—”

I interrupted. “What!? I play high school football!”

She nodded. “You’re the story. Not the Wolves forfeiting. You. The only female position player on a regular high school boys’ football team in the country.”

I put my face down in my hands and shook my head. “I just wanna play the game. Have fun with my friends. Win some games, maybe go to the State playoffs.”

“You can do all that,” she agreed. “But Pete, you’re a beautiful girl who chooses to be on the field instead of cheering from the sidelines. People want to know you.”

She reached across the table, not touching me but reaching out. “You’ve got their attention. People are going to want to know what you have to say.”

I frowned at her. “What I want to say you couldn’t print—or say on television.”

She grinned. Again, I found it hard to dislike her. She was trying to do her job. “I get it,” she said. “I really do. But your guy here is a photographer,” she meant Lee. “What if we find a quiet place, and he can film me interviewing you? Then you can have some say in what goes out. We’ll beat the big‑market guys to breaking the story and steal some of their flash.”

I glanced at Lee. He tilted his head, trying to leave the decision to me, but I could see he wanted this chance.

I sighed.

Coach Wilson interrupted. “You’re not going to do anything until Pete talks to her parents.”

Brigitte nodded, standing up suddenly. “Then let’s go do that now. Were they at the game?”

“I think Mom was,” I said.

Lee nodded. “She’s with my mom.”

“What? Why?”

“For this,” said Lee. “Mom invited the media to this game because she knew you were going to be a story. And your mom will have to sign a release for you to be on TV.”

I stared at him. “Fuck me! I’ve been set up.” I felt hollow, like I’d been betrayed.

Brigitte winced. She reached out again, and this time she did touch me, on the wrist. “You’re right. You can’t say that on TV.”