Lately, it has been hard for me to get inspired and sit down and write. Your reviews have been amazing and I hope you continue to review...if I could get a few more per chapter I'd be so happy, and possibly more motivated to get the chapters up quicker! :) Thanks...and Enjoy Jace's POV...I decided we should see inside his mind for this chapter...and possibly the next..? anyway...ENJOY :D

Jace squinted against the sunlight, trying to mask his annoyance as his team lined up on either side of the line of scrimmage. It was a nice day, warm with a nice breeze blowing all around them, stirring up the colorful leaves in the trees and pushing wisps of clouds about in the sky. He wiped his sweaty fingertips against his orange quarterback jersey, risking a glance in the direction of the gymnasium. His Testarossa should have been going to volleyball practice, but she had yet to make an appearance. Jace dug the toe of his cleats into the grass of the field, angered he'd allowed himself to even think about her past their first kiss. It's just because Isabelle interrupted us, he explained to himself, worried by the wave of uneasiness curling through his stomach. His conscience even knew he was lying to himself, but he continued on with the self-deception. If I just get her into my bed—

"HERONDALE!" the coach screamed, piercing deeply into Jace's personal thoughts. He realized the team had been lined up for quite some time now, waiting for him to stop staring at the American flag waving proudly outside the end zone. Jace blinked a couple times, feeling something trickling down his chin. Oh, was that drool? He sucked it back in, shaking his head once for good measure. "You don't want to be running suicides after practice, do you?" Jace shook his head, muttering a quiet, no sir. He unintentionally rolled his eyes, thankful that the bars of his facemask obscured the coach's view.

"Alright, pansies," the coach said, slapping his thighs and assuming a defensive position next to a player who was nearly standing up straight. The boy crouched down instantly, his eyes boring down on the teammate that stood across from him. Jace's golden eyes flicked toward the other members, each glowering intently at their opponent. Had he been out for so long that he'd missed the morph from half-hearted game to full-out brawl? He licked his thumb and index finger in preparation for the ball to land in his hands, and the coach continued, content with everybody's stance. "If you run this play well, you may all be done with practice." Jace laughed humorlessly, one more time never meant done, not with this coach. He should know after all, since this was his step-father, Michael Wayland. Not that Jace had ever been allowed to call that man anything other than sir.

He clipped his chinstrap, sighing at the team around him. They were in the most basic formation, with the wide receivers out on each side. Behind Jace was the fullback, who had the tailback lined up behind him. In front of Jace, crouched low and ready to snap the ball was the center, who was flanked by the offensive guards. Outside the offensive guards were the offensive tackles, and then beside the right offensive tackle was the tight end. This setup was so simple, so easy that they called it Basic. He moved his eyes to the coach, who was warily eyeing the boys that he had positioned at the receiving positions. They hadn't been able to catch any of Jace's tosses today, and Jace knew they were perfect, a wobbly, inaccurate pass never left his fingertips. Michael had made sure to than when Jace was merely a young boy.

A shrill whistle pulled Jace's attention to the center, who hiked the ball squarely into Jace's awaiting hands. He felt at home with the brown pigskin firmly beneath his quarterback hands. The grips on the leather were a welcoming feeling, and a sense of calm washed completely over him. Here, on the football field with its perfectly manicured green grasses, white spray painted lines, and yellow goal posts, was his home, where he belonged. His fingers fit perfectly into the spaces between the white laces as he dropped back into the pocket his line had created. His eyes scanned across the field as he waited…and waited. His receivers hadn't curved out, hadn't sought out the coveted open spot. It was as if they were ball shy, desperately trying to avoid being open to avoid having to touch the football. He dropped his arm from where it was poised to throw, and ran, dancing between the defenders, dodging tackles, and running, cockily, into the end zone. "That's how it's done, boys," he said, yanking his chinstrap open and pulling his helmet off. He ran his hand through his sweaty, golden locks and risked a glance at the cheerleaders, waving seductively with his signature smirk in place against his mouth. He walked slowly back to the coach as they giggled gleefully. Yeah, he liked having that effect on girls.

The grass crunched beneath his cleats as he sauntered back to the crowd of awaiting football players. He had almost reached the pack when Michael parted the team and strode up to Jace. He stood a whole head shorter than the golden angel, with short, dark brown hair, and matching brown eyes. Jace puffed out his chest, stretching the height difference even further. He had known his step-father's reprimand would follow his actions, but frankly, he didn't care right now. He was on top of the world, as reflected in the awe and wonder that filled each of his teammate's expressions as they stared at him. To him, it was as if they were all bowing and kissing the ground he walked on. Coach Wayland was the one hater among many fans, one zit on the face of his popularity. Unfortunately, he was a festering pimple, that couldn't be popped without a bunch of pain and agony. "Herondale," he said gruffly, his face contorted into a horrifying scowl. "That was the dumbest maneuver I've ever seen. It was sloppy and uncoordinated. You could have been injured with the way you were flailing around the diving tackles." Jace sucked in a sharp breath, biting back his snarky comments, knowing it would only make his position worse. Then Coach Wayland cracked a grin, "Good job, Herondale, you know what being a quarterback is all about."

His stepdad clapped him on the shoulder, and Jace exhaled in disbelief. Had Michael Wayland just paid him a comment? He smiled and threw his fist into the air, "No guts," Coach Wayland said quietly from outside the small huddle.

"NO GLORY!" the team echoed, pushing and shoving their way off the field. Jace headed to the bench, dropping his helmet to the ground where it rolled to rest against the legs of the bench. Ripping off his orange jersey so he was only in a wife-beater, he grabbed his sports bottle and squeezed a stream of water over his head, allowing the droplets to fall off his face and race down the contours of his muscles, cooling the heated and flushed skin of his body.

"Nice job, Herondale," he heard a few of his teammates call from behind him. He offered them a quick thanks, squirting a stream of cool water against his dry tongue, winking at the cute cheerleaders who were flouncing around in their short skirts and low-cut tops. Kaelie was over there, but he didn't feel like talking to her. She was trying to show off, trying to impress him by attempting to do the splits, which was a fail since she was at least six inches off the ground still. He gargled the water and spit it out, flashing her a peace sign, disgusted by the fact that every girl he met felt the need to impress him, to give him her best. Then, they'd just progressively get worse from there. He wanted a girl that he'd love at her worst, but build up to be her greatest, but a few insecure girls here and there were nice, too. He grabbed his gear and headed toward the fieldhouse, where the locker rooms were. He walked along the path, the gravel scattering beneath the teeth of his cleats. A few stragglers from school lingered on the benches or in the shade of the oak trees, but otherwise the population on campus was pretty sparse.

His helmet thumped rhythmically against his thigh as he raised his hand to his eyes, shielding them from the blazing sunshine above. The pathway to the fieldhouse was empty, though Jace would have expected to meet Testarossa on her way to her practice. He dropped his gaze to the ground. He'd allowed his idle mind to wander to thoughts of that wonderful girl again. Flashes of that night sprang out at him, sick of being suppressed in the deep folds of his sub-consciousness: her fingers tangling into his hair, her fingers digging into his skin, her lips igniting fire against his own, the silky skin of her creamy throat. Everything about her intrigued him, everything captured his attention. Her green eyes were flecked with the most subtle amount of gold. Each freckle dotting her cheeks and bridging across her nose screamed out to be kissed by him, to be touched and caressed, to be acknowledged. He reached the edge of the gym with the rest of his team hot on his heels.

He paused in the doorway, doing a double-take just to make sure his eyes hadn't betrayed him. She sat on the floor, all alone with the golden lighting of the gymnasium shining down at her from every angle. She was illuminated in a brilliant, angelic glow, and Jace had to remember to close his jaw. He heard the snickers from behind him. "Herondale's got this," somebody whispered, and Jace snapped out of his staring spell. Her was a douche bag, a player. He flirted and fled, kissed and dissed. He didn't stop and ponder, he didn't settle down. So he did what he'd always done when he'd been frightened. He'd allowed the jerk façade he'd been hiding behind since he was young do all the talking. He opened his mouth just as she switched stretches, tossing her thick, red braids over her shoulders. It made him remember how the silky strands felt as he twirled them between his fingers, when he kissed the crown of her head. He hooted, pleased when his teammates joined in with a chorus of catcalls. He watched Clary stand up and make to leave, her head ducked low and her feet shuffling slowly away. Jace opened his stupid mouth. ""Aw, come on, another stretch, Testarossa! Preferably one where you bend over—"

Jace tucked as a volleyball came flying past his head, brushing against his ear and creaming Alec square in the face. Jace chuckled, standing up and brushing himself off, as if it had taken nothing at all to doge her spike. In all truth, it had been powerful, enough to make Alec stumble a few steps backward, his face now a nice shade of pink. He watched Clary turn on her heel and huff away. He had to speak just one more time. "Ooh, flexible and feisty…me like." He dodged another ball, not bothering to see who it got buried into this time. He fled into the men's locker room, grabbing his t-shirt and clean shorts and high-tailing it to the shower stalls. Thankfully, St. Xavier's had invested in the showers with their own stalls, so he stepped in, carefully locking the door behind him. He stripped off his wife-beater and shorts, removing his cleats and socks next. He cranked the water on the shower, stepping in.

He immediately jumped out of the spray, yelping as the cold water connected with his skin. He tested the water with his fingertip before hopping back in, allowing the warm water to roll off his blond hair, which hung in curls just to the bottoms of his ears. He ran his hands down his face, removing the traces of dirt and sweat that the day's practice had brought on. He tipped his head backward, the full spray of the shower enveloping him in a warm cloud of steam.

He gave himself one moment to think about Clary, the volleyball player, the housemate, the innocent, feisty, sweet, defiant girl. She was so many things, so many contrasting behaviors, dispositions. She was interesting, but Jace knew she was off limits in so many ways. First of all, she was younger than him, by nearly three years, and some reason, she seemed too innocent to be hanging around with a guy like him. Next, Izzy would totally kick his butt, or at least knee him where a man breathes. Lastly, nobody like her would ever fall for a guy like him. The universe wasn't that off-balance for that to ever happen. He gingerly touched the skin on his chest, raised, flaming patches of red that sliced up his chest, across his torso, down his sides. He had a thick black tattoo to cover most of the horrible spots, but ink couldn't cover the pain he felt, deeply rooted inside his core. He braced his hands against the tiled wall of the shower, leaning in and panting. He couldn't even think about it yet. He hadn't talked to anybody since it had happened. Not his mom, not his stepdad, not even his parabatai, Alec. He curled his fingers into tight fists, squeezing his eyes shut as tight as they could go.

He wasn't supposed to be weak, wasn't supposed to be injured or hurt. He didn't have feelings or emotions. He was Jace Herondale, son of Celine and Stephen Herondale, the man who taught him to be tough, to be strong. He opened his eyes, finishing his shower in a sullen haze, watching as the locker room emptied out, and he was the only one left, his elbows balanced on his knees and face buried into his hands. I am Jace Herondale, he repeated inside his head, willing the pain he felt inside to disappear. I am Jace Herondale. He finally sat up, hearing something echoing from over by the door. He watched as a figure slowly rounded the wall that separated the entrance from the rest of the locker room.

Jace stopped, watching Kaelie saunter over toward him. He couldn't help but notice she was no Clary. Her clothes were just a bit too tight and her hair just a bit too blond, but he was still a boy, and when she sat down on his lap and ran her fingertips down his face, he could just close his eyes and breathe her in. She didn't even smell remotely close to the amazing aroma that surrounded Clary. "Kaelie," he managed to stammer from in between the kisses she was plating on his lips, "this is not the girl's locker room." Kaelie pulled back, looking at him sheepishly through her mascara-caked eyelashes. Jace wanted to tell her she looked like she got gangbanged by Crayola, but for once, he bit his tongue, wanting to see what she would say.

"I know," she replied quietly, sucking her lower lip between her teeth. Jace cringed at her attempt of flirting, but this girl was easy, and he needed a distraction. "But I got a new car…" Jace arched his eyebrows, wondering what was wrong with Kaelie's pink Porsche. "And I was wondering if you wanted to christen it with me…?" Jace didn't even get to reply before she smashed her suffocating lips against his and lead him away.

So, inspire me, inquire me, respire me..okay maybe not the last one because it doesn't make sense, but I ran out of rhyming words...so...Review? :D XOXO