The cocky star QB and the team's sarcastic water boy. What could go wrong? A sports romance with humor and heart from the author of They Hate Each Other Cameron Morelli is hot sh*t. Worse, he knows it. With a godlike physique and a position as his varsity football team’s star quarterback, there’s nobody he can’t charm. So one might imagine his mortification when he’s rejected by Mason Gray, the team’s snarky water boy. To make matters worse, this disgrace is followed by Cam’s coach benching him until he can get his grades up. Luckily, a reliable tutor steps forward to help Cam reclaim his dignity—the boy who just humiliated him. For Mason, tutoring an airheaded jock is nothing but a distraction from a past he can’t escape. What he doesn’t expect is to find something worthwhile in their conversations—something softening in the ice between them. Nor does Cam expect that Mason’s calm smile hides a harrowing story. As they slowly nudge through each other’s steel gates, the dangerous realities beyond high school threaten their deepening bond. But really, it’s about football. Amanda Woody is a metro-Detroit-based queer author. They graduated from Central Michigan University with a degree in English and a certificate in creative writing. When not writing and reading happily ever afters,they can be found drinking caramel apple cocktails, playing Hades , or rewatching childhood shows with their siblings. You can follow them on Twitter at @AmandaWoody_. Chapter One Cam Mason Gray, your face is mine. I mean that fondly, of course. Now that I’ve had a few weeks to get to know Elwood High’s new varsity football team water boy, I’ve decided to offer him a taste of what it means to date a strapping young lad. It should be the easiest “yes” in years. I’m single. He’s single, probably. I’m spectacularly attractive. He’s symmetrical from the neck up. I’m a big fan of all the genders. And he wears beanies and rainbow gloves, so I’ll eat my own ass if he’s not a little fruity. Most importantly, I know Mason Gray has eyes for me. Whenever I glance over from the field, he’s watching me from the sidelines in his water boy jersey, tapping his clipboard. Clearly trying to be as cute and dainty as possible to fit that soft boy aesthetic that drives women feral. “Well, Cameron,” he said politely when I called him out for his hungry gaze just last week, his smile never reaching his eyes, “I’m probably watching you because you’re the quarterback, so you’re usually holding the ball.” His pitifully obvious desire for me is bursting at the seams, so I’ll spare him time to get to know me. Because I’m a good person. “He’s going to say no,” ­Darius—​­our biggest linebacker and team ­captain—​­tells me as we jog a warm‑­up lap around the track wrapping the football field. The Southfield Hawks aren’t here yet, so I have plenty of time to acquire Mason as my boyfriend and make out with him passionately behind the bleachers. It’s usually the first thing my partners ask of me, anyway, so I’m fully prepared to get it out of the way if it means I can proceed to stare at him unblinkingly without being labeled a creep. “Why would he reject me?” I ask with a cheeky smile. “I think he’d be honored. It’s the first time in years I’m asking someone out, rather than the other way around.” Darius wipes beads of sweat from his warm brown forehead, or maybe he’s massaging away the headache he likes to pretend I give him on a weekly basis. “Sorry, why exactly do you need to pursue the guy who has a track record of rejecting everyone who wants to date him?” “His face.” “What about it?” “It’s ­high-​­quality,” I say with a scoff, because shouldn’t that be obvious? “And it looks soft. And he has nice skin.” He really does. Mason is more pleasant to look at than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s a smooth plain of pale ivory, and his lashes are long and as deeply obsidian in color as the ­feather-​­soft hair constantly rumpled atop his head. His eyes are big and round and perfectly spaced apart and a sweet honey brown. My carnal desire to stare at him means I must be attracted to him. Which means his face is mine. “Don’t do this, Cam,” Darius pleads, slapping a beefy hand on my shoulder. “We need your ego for the game.” As if anything could wound my ­rock-​­solid ego. Five minutes later, I approach Mason. He’s writing on his clipboard, pretending like he can’t see my hulking figure in his peripherals, his cheeks appropriately flushed considering my proximity. “Hey, water boy,” I say. Mason spares me a glance. “Yes, quarterback?” His eyes are astonishingly cold in comparison to the warm color of his irises. “You and me,” I say, jabbing a confident thumb into my chest. “I’ll be the sun to your moon if you’ll be the tides to my beach.” Fucking nailed it. Mason scrutinizes me with measured intensity. “Are you having a stroke?” he asks. Uh . . . hmm. Can’t say that’s ever been a response to my poetry. “I’m asking you out,” I explain, in case he’s not ­well-​­versed in r