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“She’s trying to kill me,” I say, glaring at the screen as steam pours from my ears. “Silk Hiding Steel Pink Pixie Girl is trying to irritate me into an early grave.” Fine. You win, Capone. Tomorrow. Have her call my cell at 6pm. She writes back, Excellent! And I’m not a gangster, thank you very much. I’m a Southern lady. I write back, Same thing. Then I slam the laptop closed and head out to practice, trying to wipe the memory of that kiss from my brain so I can get back to forgetting what happens inside my chest every time I think about it. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work. Practice is a disaster. I can’t get my mind off Maddie. Every time I call a play or throw a pass, she’s there in my head. She scolds me when I yell at the punter for missing the snap. She rolls her eyes when I cur
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