I shake my head. The moment Bree knows about my relationship troubles, half the school will know. “No.”

“It’s just a matter of time. You, me, and Ashtyn have to go shopping for dresses.” She motions to Ashtyn, who’s kicking a football into the practice net. She picks up another one and stares at it. From this distance I can tell she’s reading something on it. With a little squeal, she runs up to Derek and says “yes!” before hugging him tight.

Yeah, he just asked her to homecoming. No doubt about that. As I stand here happy for my best friend, my heart is sinking into my chest at the knowledge that Trey and I aren’t madly in love with each other like Ashtyn and Derek.

I look over at Trey. He probably hasn’t even thought about asking me to homecoming. He’s too focused on everything else, including Zara Hughes.

Bree taps me on the shoulder with her perfectly manicured nails accented with little gold hearts. “We need to make Ashtyn look like a girl for once, instead of a football player. Homecoming is our chance!”

“If I even go,” I tell her.

“Trey will ask you. I’m not too sure about our resident grumpyface Vic though. He might be a lost cause.”

We both focus on Vic. It’s not surprising that he’s in the face of an opposing player, challenging the guy. I cross my fingers that he doesn’t get into a brawl and get kicked out of the game.

“Don’t be an idiot and get over it already!” Vic’s dad growls loudly from the stands. Everyone can hear him, including the opposing team.

After the altercation, Vic glances into the stands where his dad is sitting. Mr. Salazar looks completely pissed that Vic was about to get into a fight.

Usually during games Vic looks determined and focused. But now he’s got a fierce, almost defiant look on his face. He shoves his helmet over his head and runs onto the field. During the next play, Vic pushes the offensive lineman out of the way and rushes the quarterback, tackling him to the ground with such force it’s surprising they both didn’t get the wind knocked out of them. The crowd cheers and the guys on our team pat Vic on his helmet in celebration, but it doesn’t look like he notices at all.

He lines up on the field again, ready for the second down.

I can feel Vic’s tension in the air like it’s a thick cloud hanging over him. I have a bad feeling about this as he sacks the quarterback on the second down. He dives over two guys to get to him — a risky, crazy move.

Coach Dieter must sense that Vic is playing with emotion instead of playing smart. He yells for Vic to get off the field, but Vic turns away and gets back on the line of scrimmage.

On third down, two offensive linemen rush Vic. He attempts to plow into them with his head down.

Oh, no!

I don’t play football, but I know enough that he’s going to get hurt if he keeps playing recklessly. Something deep inside me shivers at the thought of Vic getting hurt.

Vic jogs off the field as our offensive line goes in.

Dieter grabs Vic’s facemask. “What the hell was that, Salazar?” Dieter yells.

It’s not hard to hear the exchange between them. “I got two sacks, Coach,” Vic tells him.

“I don’t give a crap, Salazar. I want you to play with heart, not careless and stupid. One more suicide stunt like that, and you’re benched the rest of the game.”

When the coach lets go of him, Vic is so riled up he’s about to get into the coach’s face, but Trey, Jet, and Derek hold him back. It takes all three of them to do it.

“Monika!” Bree says, waving her hand in front of my face to get my attention. “Stop watching the game and start cheering.”

But I’m not watching the game.

I’m watching Vic lose control.

Chapter Thirteen

VICTOR

So yeah, I totally lost it last night at the game. When my dad kept yelling at me from the stands and I knew that Monika could hear his rants, it pissed me off so much that I couldn’t control my anger. I took it out on the other team, on Dieter, on my friends…

Control is the only thing I have left. And now I’m losing it.

This morning, I’m about to leave the house when mi papá stops me in the hallway. “You’re a moron, Victor,” he says.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Leave it to Papá to constantly remind me that I’m not even close to meeting his expectations as a son.

“I’m late for work,” I say, expecting him to fling another insult because that’s what he does best.

Papá hates where I work. He also thinks that football and being a jock, two things that define me, are a waste of time. He goes to the game for exposure and to fake everyone into thinking he’s a supportive father. Truth is, he’d rather me join the Future Entrepreneurs of America. The fact that I didn’t try to get a prestigious internship at a Fortune 500 company this past summer irks him. He’d never brag that his son is an All-State high school football player who works at an auto body shop getting his hands dirty and making crap money.