“Aww, cute …” Nash laughs, teasingly, nudging his friend with his shoulder.

Harley shakes his head at him, watching me with a curious look in his eye as I approach him. “What are you playing at?” he asks from the corner of his mouth while Nash busies himself with choosing his next player. “You hate flag football.”

“What are you talking about?” I look up at him, fluttering my eyelashes innocently as I push my glasses up my nose. “I love football …”

“Flag football, Murph,” he reminds me with a warning look. “Flag!”

I roll my eyes, dismissing his halfhearted caution with a brush of my hand. Smiling to myself all the while, I began imagining Anna’s flawless face being pushed into the mud by yours truly.

***

Ten minutes into the game and Nash has the ball, laughing and dodging Harley’s defensive line, while I’m stuck on the sidelines because I’d been sent off for two minutes for tackling Taylor, one of Anna’s bridesmaids.

Taylor had the ball, and she was running toward the makeshift end zone. I saw her flag flailing in her wake, and I should have grabbed it. But I didn’t. I’m not sure what I was thinking. Maybe that’s just it. Maybe I wasn’t thinking. All I knew was that I couldn’t let her score, and my natural instinct was to stop her, any way I could. So, snapping into action, I picked up speed, sprinting as fast as my short legs would allow. I was just lucky she wasn’t really putting in any effort; I’m pretty sure she was only playing in an attempt to be cute in front of the guys, because I somehow managed to catch up with her and, in an instant, without even thinking, I launched at her. And I mean launched. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders from behind so tight, my feet actually lifted off the ground.

Our collision seemed to happen in slow motion as our bodies tumbled together, until Taylor fell to the ground in a pile of mud with me landing on top of her, my glasses flying right off my face. She pushed me off, screaming and crying. Apparently, she bit her tongue, but I doubt it was as bad as she was carrying on about since there was no sign of blood.

So, while I wait on the sideline for my penalty time to count down, Taylor sits on the patio with a bag of frozen peas pressed against her chin, glaring daggers at me as if she’s hoping looks might actually kill.

After an interception, we have the ball again, and Harley leads a huddle when he waves me back onto the field. I run toward the small group, sidling up next to him as he explains the play to the team. “Murph, this is your ball.” He looks at me. “You’re the shortest.”

I stand as tall as I can, gaping at him with my hands on my hips. “Hey!”