Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone Mariah Dietz (best novels to read .txt) 📖

the beginning of the fall semester, and its sole purpose was to share “rumors” about each member of the team. Some rumors were true, as was the case with Cooke, some were gross exaggerations, like mine, and some were disgustingly false, like the one that implied Ian Forrest was responsible for his best friend’s death in high school. The site even went after Rose, Ian’s girlfriend, because she was helping us dispel the rumors with positive stories in the school’s newspaper. Thankfully, her dad has some serious pull and was able to get the site shut down a couple of weeks ago. But the damage has been done, and we’re all working to shed some of the rumors that still cling to our reputations.

Cooke reruns the play, his footwork spot on, but his pass to Coach Baker is flat and too far to the right.

Coach Baker doesn’t comment; he just gives Cooke a disapproving stare as he runs back to where Brad Gardner and I are in line. “You’ve got this,” I tell him, patting his shoulder.

“How are you feeling, Lawson?” Coach Baker asks. “You aren’t on my field nursing a hangover, right?” There’s the reminder of the rumors. They never drift far.

“No, sir.”

He gives me a pointed look, still pissed off. Ian’s right, they’re paying attention. It’s a burden that I’ve been wearing out of awareness and also guilt with a hint of resentment. “If I see any more shit from you off of this field, you’re going to be riding the pine. I don’t care how good you are. You aren’t above the rules of this team.”

“No, sir.”

Another stern look from Coach Baker. A disappointed glare from Coach Harris followed by a look of contempt from Gardner, who’s been trying to take my spot for the past year. He’s hungry for attention and playing time, and he makes no effort to hide his distaste for my mistakes.

I run toward the hula hoops laid out on the field that represent our offensive linebackers. My grip is firm, my feet light, my looks solid as I dance around the markers and throw a perfect pass to Coach Baker. A month ago, he’d be congratulating me and pointing out my footwork to my teammates. Today, he blows his whistle, prompting Gardner that it’s his turn.

Every guy on the team had at least one appearance on the rumor site, and depending on the particular rumor, our coaches have had to defend us to the school board or the administration, or even the news. A few of the rumors were sent to review panels and investigated. Some sparked questions and doubt about the special treatment athletes receive, while others centered around the guys’ personal lives on the team, their secrets laid out for all to judge. My indiscretions fit into the mold of disappointment and special treatment. Coach Harris and Coach Baker have been reminding me how I failed our team and school and them as well as myself for several weeks now, holding my starting position over my head like one dangles a cat toy to make them do a trick—and I’m sure as hell jumping.

“Faster this time, Lawson,” Coach Baker bellows before blowing his whistle.

I make my way back to the line of hula hoops and do just that.

“Practice sucked,” Arlo groans as he sits on the bench in the locker room, his right knee extended. He tore his ACL last winter and has only been back on the field for a few weeks. None of us ask how he’s feeling because Arlo takes the question personally, tired of feeling like the weak link in the chain.

“You guys want to watch some tape tonight?” I ask, rifling through my locker. My question is an invitation for anyone on the team, but I direct it to my roommates Arlo and Lincoln, who have become an extension of my family.

“We don’t have time to watch tape. The girls have us going to the house to set up for the party this weekend,” Lincoln tells me.

The reminder feels like defeat. The last thing I want to do is head home and clean for a party I don’t care about or want. Yet, this is what happens when my best friend is dating my little sister and yet another payment for my indiscretions. They’re all watching me, my sister, my friends, even my dad, who I’ve barely spoken to in the past year, are all paying too close attention to my actions, making it seem like I’m being babysat. I realize this is largely my fault, so I’m trying not to act like the asshole it often leaves me feeling like.

“Are we really going through with this? No one wants to go to a dry Halloween party.” I shove the clothes that need washing into my duffel bag and discover a brown banana that is shriveling and stinking at the bottom of my locker.

“Dude,” Arlo remarks, eyeing the rotted fruit as I lift it by its stem. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Who cares if people come,” Lincoln says from the other side of me, ignoring the banana that I fling into the nearby trash can. “The fewer people, the better in my book.”

“Amen,” Ian says from the opposite side of Arlo. “People are fucking disgusting. After the last big party at my place, I found so much random shit left behind. Shoes, condoms, empties, underwear, someone even left their damn glasses. Like how the fuck do you lose your glasses?”

An innuendo teeters on my tongue but stops as I glance at Lincoln. Him dating my little sister is still strange for me, but it’s also not a situation I would dare meddle in or force him to pick a side with because he prioritizes Raegan and works hard to be a good boyfriend and makes her happy in ways I didn’t even realize she wasn’t before. And there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that he’s happier than he’s ever been.

“I already hired a cleaning company,” Lincoln