Secret Girlfriend: RVHS Secrets, #1

By Bria Quinlan

Since her mom died, Amy Whalen's been invisible—but not in the cool, superpower kind of way. Overlooked at school and ignored at home, Amy holds tight to her few constants: running, painting, and her long-held crush on soccer god, Chris Kent. But as senior year nears, Chris doesn't just notice her, he needs her.

Amy will agree to almost anything to be with him.

Everything is great—sort of—until Luke Parker shows up for soccer tryouts and sees through every one of Amy's defenses. When Luke decides he wants Chris's spot on the team and wouldn't sneeze at the captain's jersey either their rivalry spins out of control.

It doesn't help that Luke also wants the girl Chris kept hidden all summer: AMY.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bria Quinlan
• Release date: Nov 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386889304

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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.

Because, of course they didn’t.

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. Even I’m not that weird.

But, it was fair to say that on the High School Visibility Scale I scored a negative seven. Even so, I’d have been the first to tell you I didn’t mind people basically ignoring me not-on-purpose. Or even on purpose.

Well, typically I wouldn’t mind.

But, now? I’d made a deal with the devil… I mean that boy… and stomping away was the only thing I could do in this particular situation.

Because, Chris Kent? The the boy I’d made the stupid secret girlfriend agreement with? 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 when he’d created it at the end of summer break. 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?

And, since tryout sessions were closed, little Miss Wave-My-Butt-Around-In-My-Too-Short-Cheer-Skirt couldn’t show up to practice no matter how much she fluttered her eyelashes.

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 up his game to get into Monroe State. After meeting with an alum, 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 her guy 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 shoo-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.

Okay, that sounded worse than it was.

Part of it was that this year’s squad 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 relationship 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 assistant 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 State of the Union 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 assistant 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 championship dynasty. It also made for some nasty feuds passed 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 balls, 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 hell 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.

Even in the throng of baggy soccer shorts and school T-shirts, Chris stood out. It was like watching a movie star try to blend in with a group of math teachers. He had a body to rival an MLS player—taller than most guys with a lean cut, strong legs, and slightly broadened shoulders.

Not to mention sun-streaked blond hair and Starbucks green eyes.

Kent, do you know what time tryouts start?

Eight, Coach.

Coach Sarche threw his clipboard down in my general direction.

That’s right. Eight. Can you explain to me why it’s— He glowered at his watch and raised a red-hazed glare to meet Chris’s eye. Eight-oh-seven and you’re just joining us?

Sorry, Coach. Mrs. Carr asked me to carry the cheer team’s tumble mats to the lower fields. I didn’t think you’d mind me giving them a hand.

Coach ran his hand through his thinning hair and glared at his watch again.

Any more helping the ladies happens on your own time. Run laps while I finish roll call.

Without a word, just a quick wink at me, Chris took off around the field, his hand sweeping along the edge of the netting as he passed behind the goal.

Where the hell is my clipboard?

I snatched it off the ground and handed it to Coach before easing into the background again.

Kimball!

And on it went. Coach shouting names. Boys shouting ‘here’. Chris running laps.

Very distracting. Laps that is.

The list came to an end and Coach jerked his head toward me in what could only be considered a command for attention.

Headcount?

Thank goodness I’d counted the boys there out of curiosity before he’d started.

There’s seven more guys than names on the list.

He ran his hand through his hair again, giving it a sharp yank before dropping his arm and studying the boys. "Whose name did I not call?"

Six hands rose slowly. Very slowly. And yeah, only six. I glanced around wondering who the coward was.

You better have a darn good reason why you didn’t sign up ahead of time like everyone else.

The crowd surged back, guys shifting away from un-signed-up friends.

You. Coach pointed at an unfamiliar boy. Name and excuse.

I glanced at the new guy, pegging him for a goalie because of his height. He probably had two inches on Chris. He was as lean, but where Chris was all golden, he had dark hair that almost flopped into his eyes.

I expected the new kid to stutter a reply and hope Coach moved on to the next tardy applicant. Instead, he answered as if there wouldn’t be any shouting coach-wise.

Luke Parker. We moved here two days ago. The school said to just show up.

The small circle surrounding New Kid Luke Parker shifted farther away from him. Some in awe, most in horror.

Coach slammed the clipboard against his leg and practically snarled, Did they?

Yes, sir.

I think it was the sir that stopped him. What position do you play, Parker?

Left forward.

The team—using that well-honed collective instinct—all glanced at Chris as he passed the corner cone on the far side of the field.

Well, Parker, that slot is all but filled.

I’m sorry, sir. Luke Parker’s mouth twitched into a lopsided grin, the right side hitching his lips a tad bit higher. I thought this was tryouts.

I didn’t think boys did things like gasp, but the whole group sucked their breath in as one and then, under the stillness, a voice whispered, Damn.

Parker, do you want to join Kent in laps, son? Coach sounded angry. But something about the way he rubbed his hand across his jaw, hiding his mouth, made me think he was more than a little amused.

I’m not afraid of work, sir. But I do play left forward.

"I’ll decide if, when, and where you play. Hand your waiver form in to the stats girl and make yourself scarce until it’s time to show me what you’ve got. Everyone else who isn’t signed up, get your waiver in today. Coach waved me forward without looking my way. Which reminds me. We have a new stats girl. Paperwork, sick calls, all your numbers go through her. You have an issue with grades, she needs to know. If you think you might be sick three weeks from now, she needs to know. Any questions?"

I held my breath. Eyes flickered over me and back to Coach.

Fine. Coach slammed his clipboard down on the card table. Line up behind the cones at midfield.

As the guys began to drift away, one set of eyes rested on me longer than that blink of a moment and I knew who they belonged to before I raised my own to meet his. The new kid.

Luke Parker obviously had his own superpower. He could see invisible objects.

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning, guys stumbled onto the field trying to hide sore legs and tired bodies. Coach’s one gift to the team was having the first session in the evening. For the next week, tryouts were double sessions every day—8am, 7pm, 8am, 7pm—until you were cut or handed a blue and emerald uniform.

The guys trickled down to the field in groups and began their own type of tryouts.

That is what every girl at Ridge View High School would have wanted to see. The secret life of boys, not only in their natural environment, but unobserved by the female species. After watching the ribbing, mocking, tackling, and pantsing going on, I had to admit that maybe not having a brother was for the best. Seriously, how did any house survive the teenage boy years?

Hey.

I must have that woman’s intuition everyone talked about because, without looking, I knew who it would be. I guess the whole invisibility-spotting thing wasn’t a hoax.

Luke Parker made me feel tiny at 5’8. Unlike a lot of tall guys, he didn’t slouch or compact himself in any way. I’d never met a guy my age who owned his height like he did. Of course, I didn’t know very many guys, so maybe it was just me.

So, he continued. Do I need to check in with you?

I tried not to give him the you’re-an-idiot look since none of the other guys were checking in with me.

Nope. Coach likes to do roll call. I found the binder with the Session Two-A roster and laid it open, marking the page with my pen so I’d be ready to move when Coach started his pacing-shouting-names-throwing-clipboard thing.

So, you take care of the stats and stuff?

I had no idea what that meant, or what stuff included. Besides, every girl learns sometime during elementary school never to answer a boy’s open-ended question. It’s where we began to fine tune the art of the Re-Direct.

Was there something you needed? I asked.

The same grin, hooked up on the right side, slid across his lips. Not really. Just trying to get my bearings.

Shouldn’t you be bonding or something? I waved my hand toward the guys at midfield stretching and passing balls between them. None of them looked our way. Maybe I wasn’t the only one they didn’t notice.

Nah. They aren’t going to like me till I prove myself since I’m slotted against what’s-his-name.

Kent. Chris Kent. Okay, no wonder James Bond says his name like that. It definitely lent an air of authority. Plus, it was fun to say.

I get it. It’s a loyalty thing. I even respect it. But none of those guys wants me to walk over there and join them until I slot myself somewhere else. He glanced at the gathering mob. Of course, they don’t want me to grab their spot either.

He couldn’t help it if Chris was That Guy. Every guy wanted to be him—or be around him—and every girl wanted his attention. He was good-looking and popular. Teachers loved him because he was charming. One smile and he basically owned you.

He had a gift. A gift that, when he turned his gaze upon you, you suddenly felt as though you were the only person who mattered. Not just mattered there, but mattered anywhere.

He was that amazing, that much of a magnet. It wasn’t uncommon for people to move plans—heck, whole parties—just to have him there. Just so they could bask in that power he brought with him.

Luke couldn’t compete with that. But then again, who could?

Behind him, Chris jogged up the hill from where there just happened to be a bunch of tumble mats set out. A group of easily distracted airheads watched him make his escape. At the top of the hill he slowed, his gaze moving over the new guy and me standing by the dilapidated folding table. He stutter-stepped, his gaze narrowing on Luke beside me.

Hopefully, I wouldn’t spit my heart out if I cleared my throat. It was lodged in there so tight it blocked my breath, making me dizzy. I felt my lips lift at the first good thing that day.

Before I could see if Chris would come over to wish me good morning, Coach was on the scene shouting and redirecting and shuffling guys in what appeared to be chaos.

See ya.

I shifted my gaze up, surprised to find the new kid still standing there.

Oh. Yeah. Good luck.

He waited, just kind of looking at me. Maybe he wanted me to tell him where to head.

Parker! Coach was already bellowing. Hopefully he’d wear his voice out early. Are you looking to count goals or make them?

I grabbed my binder and rushed toward Coach, pen in hand and ready to tally who had shown up for another day of abuse.

Ok. See ya, came from behind me as I brushed by the one person who could throw The Plan out of whack quicker than a varsity sprinter comes off the blocks with those all-seeing superpowers. Darn that Luke Parker.

The first morning session of tryouts went as expected. Three hours of watching the fittest of the fit compete with the guys who had gotten by playing in the town league was eye opening. Coach let them fight it out, almost literally, but they all seemed to walk off the field with no hard feelings.

By the end of the early session, I was ready to catch some shade and grab lunch with Chris. That morning I’d run to school to squeeze in my workout before the late August heat took over. His ride home would save my legs from too many miles. He’d even texted me last night. I saved it. I may have also reread it once or twice… or fourteen times. But knowing he was thinking of me and that we’d see each other at lunch had been just about the best thing ever.

That had been one of the big draws of quitting cross-country. I mean, he’d hang out with the guys, too. But still, some of those days would be mine. And, since I hadn’t seen him in almost a week, of course we’d do something today.

Now, waiting outside the locker room, I watched cheerleaders flit into the gym. They glanced around as if expecting to see half-dressed boys lounging about in all their athletic glory, just waiting for the squad to enter and appreciate them. At our school, the gym was a temple and jocks the sacrifice, offering, and idol all rolled into one.

With no male glory lounging, the girls strolled across the basketball court, oblivious to my presence, and filed into their own locker room to clean up and re-beautify.

I hoped Chris finished with the team before we had to deal with Cheryl, or there’d be some issues with getting my boyfriend-time for the day. The week actually, but who was I to complain? I knew The Plan.

The locker room door slammed against the wall and the younger guys lumbered past in clusters of threes and fours. Some amped up; others moved as if they’d been hit by a bus, run over by a Mack truck, and then keelhauled. Eventually, the upper classmen trickled out to head home or downtown for lunch.

I shouldn’t have been surprised Chris was one of the last to appear. He took his senior year duties very seriously. If he didn’t need The Plan to get into Monroe State, things would have been a lot simpler.

It definitely threw a monkey wrench in my personal plan (note the lack of capitalization). And, of course, it was the oh-so-joyful reason for the Public Image Girlfriend, Cheryl.

Unlike Miss Most Everything, I thought popularity looked more like a curse than a blessing. My best friend Rachel laughed at my embracing anonymity, but I really