Part 1 (1/2)

SECRET GIRLFRIEND.

By Bria Quinlan.

Chapter 1.

Seven lockers down Chris Kent was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader.

I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem? Not only was I that gorgeous jock's secret girlfriend-I also had a secret power.

I'm invisible.

Okay, not invisible invisible. But, in the not-so-mythical land of Highschoolia where blending in equals obscurity, I rated a negative seven JD on the Jane Doe to Lindsay Lohan Visibility Scale. I'd have been the first to tell you I didn't mind. Well, typically.

I'd made a deal with the devil... I mean the boy... and stomping away was the only thing I could do.

That boy? Chris Kent? Yeah, he and his Plan might just kill me where Advance Trig had failed. But, with my dream guy as the self-proclaimed prize, what's a girl to do?

I'd been only too happy to sign onto The Plan. And, since tryout sessions were closed, little Miss Wave-My-b.u.t.t-Around-In-My-Too-Short-Cheer-Skirt couldn't show up to practice no matter how much she fluttered her eyelashes.

You see, I've been in love with Chris Kent since fifth grade and, as senior year was about to start, he was finally all mine-well, sort of.

All I had to do was follow The Plan until after Homecoming, track the soccer team's stats with the same dedication Aunt Susan counted Weight Watcher's points, and not kill Cheryl. Easy, right?

But as I stalked down to the field, I fought the picture of my boyfriend's mouth being confiscated by that social-climbing cheer captain. Again. Unfortunately, killing his public-image girlfriend fell way outside the stupid plan.

I mean, The Plan-note the capitals.

I totally got that Chris needed to get into Monroe State. After meeting with an alumni, he'd become absurdly focused. Apparently, no matter how many years you played in the Jr. Olympics, the school wanted more. More extra curricular. Higher grades. Just... more.

Chris had gotten it into his head that matching his senior year resume to that alumni's would be the key to the golden acceptance letter. Homecoming was the first step. Prom King was the last. Every popularity rung in between was weighed against that alumni's perfect year.

And what was I supposed to say? Every time I tried to push, he'd answer with something like, Cheryl's totally on board with this. Or, Cheryl isn't arguing about not spending time with that guy she met at Ashburk Tech. So, if Cheryl could be 100% behind the charade-I mean The Plan-I should have been too.

Of course she was on board. She was getting her popularity quota filled. Having Homecoming Queen under her belt would make her a shoe-in for Most Popular when yearbook came around. Chris said she lived and breathed yearbook slots. Best Looking was her Holy Grail.

And yet, I'd quit cross-country to become the soccer team's stats girl so I could see him every day. That was pretty on board.

Of course, part of it was that my no-longer-team was filled with insanity. Not the good kind. With last year's seniors gone, no one was fast enough to train with me and it was frightening to have a flock of backstabbers running behind you. I could run on my own, without the drama, and get bonus Chris Time. Win-win.

But Chris's farce of a relations.h.i.+p with Ms. Popularity was a little too much. Especially now when he and I weren't working at the Rec Center anymore. No more evenings together after work. No more post-camper brownie binges. No more just-the-two-of-us time.

How was I going to handle being his secret girlfriend once school started in a week? Pre-school tryout, Day One: Emotional Torment was deadly enough.

At the bottom of the hill, the soccer fields were empty except for the coaches. The older boys were too smart to show up before roll call and the younger ones too scared. What did that say about me?

Coach Sarche was already practicing his scowl while he flipped the pages of a huge, beat-up binder on an old card table. The JV coach scanned a list, making little marks next to names. Their a.s.sistant hovered nearby, looking a tad bit lost. It was clear who the Captain Kirk of this group was.

I knew I'd stand there all day before anyone noticed me-you know, the whole invisibility thing-so I cleared my throat and hoped for the best.

Coach Sarche looked at me as if I'd interrupted a Presidential speech instead of a coaches' pre-tryout meeting.

”You the new stats girl?” He kind of growled the question.

Wow. No wonder the team played all-or-nothing hard. I was scared to death of him already. He was a legend at the school. On the field and off. His team and the student body understood his word was law. Even the parents felt it. If he ran for school council, they'd probably skip right to electing him mayor.

”Yes, sir. Amy Whalen,” I added as an afterthought since he probably had no idea who I was beyond ”stats girl.”

The look he gave me held equal parts disgust and annoyance with a smidgen of hopefulness thrown in.

”You know you're here because Kent spoke for you. If you can't count or you spend all your time doing your nails and flirting with my guys, you're out. Understand?”

I nodded and held up my hands nails-forward for him to see the gnawed mess they were, the cuticles stained with thick, overlapping oil paints. ”I also don't flirt.”

Yeah. As if I really looked the type.

His mouth quirked before tightening into its normal flat line. ”Good girl. These binders are your responsibility. Keep them current, accurate, and confidential. Anything less and you're out.”

I nodded again. Piece of cake. I'd been tracking our team-okay, mostly Chris-in my head since junior high. Binders were just a formality.

”Other than that, you'll be fine.”

And with that, I was dismissed. He turned his back and barked orders at the a.s.sistant as boys began drifting down from the school.

One of the things that made our soccer team so great was that the coaches placed squads by ability, not grade. So, if you were a freshman and could dribble circles around a junior, you got his spot. It made for a seven-year state champions.h.i.+p dynasty. It also made for some nasty feuds pa.s.sed down from one brother to the next.

The guys circled up, eyeing each other as Coach Sarche handed me the roster sheet and started calling names.

Abrams. Here. Anderson. Here.

The litany went on for three times as many boys as spots. Guys bounced and juggled b.a.l.l.s, showing off skills and keeping themselves busy.

”Kent.”

Gazes lowered.

”Kent?”

Nervous glances shot toward the gym door faster than Beckham acclimated to the LA lifestyle.

”Friedman,” Coach bellowed. ”Where the h.e.l.l is Kent?”

Chris's best friend eyed the lower fields where cheerleading tryouts were just getting Rah-rah-rambunctious. Ambling up the hill, Chris glanced at the cheerleaders again before raising his hand and jogging the rest of the incline.

”Hey, Coach.” Chris slid past him to file in with the other guys.