The wave of pain that hits is fast and furious, and I don’t even realize it’s coming until I’ve already moaned out loud, forcing Shannon to stop short. “Jesus, Lara. Are you OK?”
I don’t know, I want to say.Tell me you’re not hooking up with Jasmine and maybe I will be.
I don’t know why that’s the thought that comes to my head. I don’t know why this hurts. I don’t know what I feel like I’m losing because I don’t knowwhatI’m losing. All I know is the thought of them together—like,reallytogether—feels like a stab wound to the chest.
“Fine, sorry,” I croak, and Shannon makes a teasing comment about me being a drama queen. Which… is maybe exactly what Iambeing. And anyway, I haveChase. I am dating Chase fucking Harding. I don’t know how serious we are or will be but I do know what he listens to in the car and what lines make him laugh at movies and what his mouth tastes like, and that is plenty. So, what am I getting hung up about?
There’s the lightest squeeze on my shoulder, so gentle I’d think I was imagining it if it weren’t for the searing warmth coming through my baggy shirt. And like that, my question is answered: the knowing when I need a touch, when I need to be remembered, when I need affection. That quiet, intuitive kindness. That’s what I’m getting hung up about.
I lift my hand to squeeze hers back, but it’s already gone.
Chapter Twelve
After a week full of weirdness, I manage to pull myself out of it in time for Chase’s game Friday night and our subsequent date. Granted, it takes some pushing from Shannon to get me fully decked out in fangirl paint, from Chase’s number 14 boldly drawn on my face in blue to “Go Chase” scrawled down my arms. But I look pretty cute with it, and judging by the way Chase’s face lights up when he sees me, he agrees.
Next to me, Shannon’s forgone face paint in favor of a pro-Lucas sign, and she keeps whacking me in the face, but I don’t care. Chase is having one of the best games I’ve ever seen, and we spend a decent portion of the evening on our feet, cheering as he completes pass after pass, his arm finding its targets with terrifying accuracy.
On any given day, he’s good, but this is next-level. If there’s a scout hiding somewhere at this game, Chase is getting a scholarship for sure.
“He’s so fucking hot,” the girl in front of us whispersto her friend as Chase accepts a high five from Lucas after rushing the ball halfway down the field before getting slammed to the ground, and I feel my cheeks heat with pride. The Stratford rumor mill definitely hasn’t missed that there’s something between us, even if there’s only been one real date. He may not be mine in the way Tommy is Gia’s, but it’s enough for me to get the feeling that comes with knowing pretty much every girl in the room would kill to be you.
“Larissa Bogdan is such a lucky bitch,” the friend whispers back as if to prove my point, and I nearly break my nasal passages holding back a snort.
Shannon is unconcerned with being discreet. “He’s the lucky one, actually,” she leans forward and says, “and I’m the only one who gets to call her a bitch.”
The girls, who can’t be older than sophomores, look like they’re gonna pee in their tight jeans when they turn around and see us there. I can tell the girl who called me a lucky bitch wants to say she’s sorry, but she’s having trouble getting words out.
I elbow Shannon in the side and she laughs. “Iamlucky,” I say before the girl can cry or whatever. “He’s great, isn’t he?”
Two jerky puppet nods in response, and then there’s a roar from the crowd and we look up to see Chase has thrown for another touchdown. “That’s number three for the Saints!” brings us all to our feet. “Chase Harding is on fire tonight!”
Chase catches my eye and bows, and I’m gonna melt into the floor, if the girls in front of me don’t kill me first. But I remain cool and blow a kiss back.
“Aren’t you glad you listened to me about the face paint?” Shannon coos, pushing an unruly blond curl behind my ear. “Look how much he loves having his own personal cheerleader.”
The description makes me bristle, but I can’t argue with how itwasher idea to sport the paint, and hedoesseem to like it. “Pretty sure it’s my legs in this outfit he loves,” I say anyway, and Shannon sticks out her tongue.
We continue to tease each other and cheer and wave at Gia during her routines and send annoying updates to Kiki, who couldn’t care less about the game and is home glued to some true crime documentary. Mostly, I observe Chase—the agility with which he weaves between players, the way the sweat glows on his forearms, the strength in his legs. I’ve spent years watching every line of his body move on this field, but tonight is different. Tonight, I don’t have to pretend I’m eyeing all the guys equally. I don’t have to pretend I could just as happily be anywhere else. I can stare at him and howl his name and whistle in his direction and do all the things I’ve always done in my head, loud and proud and with his number right on my face.
So I do. I’m Chase’s number one cheerleader. Next to me, Shannon is the same for Lucas, though he’s only joined Chase at our table once this week and they don’t have any plans this weekend. It’s enough to make me wonder how significant her interest is in him, and whether that means that anything going on between her and Jasmine is all in my head.
Not that it matters.
I’m here with Chase. Who’s a complete and total rock star and who I’m pretty sure just smiled at me again.
I stay completely glued to the field for the final quarter, and even Shannon gives up trying to make Lucas happen and joins me and everyone else in cheering on Chase, who’s dangerously close to breaking the school’s record for passing yards in single game. There’s no question which team is going to win, but I’m biting my nails as I watch his stats edge up. Every time he completes another pass, there’s another roar and another announcement of his yardage total.
Looking at him, you might think he’s completely chill about it from his enthusiastic high fives and “whatever, man” shrugs, but I see the way his shoulders tense with each call. How his smiles are forced. IknowChase. Getting mixed up with Jasmine may have made me forget for a minute, but he’s been here since well before I knew she existed. I know him, and—
The crowd goes absolutely nuts, and even though my eyes are on the field, my own head clearly made me miss something. It isn’t until Shannon grabs my wrists and screams “He did it!” that I realize Chase passed for another twenty yards, officially taking him over the 463 he needed to wipe the last guy from the record books. I scream right along with her, doing a little cheer from my seat I remember from my freshman year stint on the JV squad. Chase yanks off his helmet, looks up at me, and laughs. I blow him a kiss and he catches it and smashes it right against his mouth, and suddenly the cheers turn to whistling and laughter and I realize we have anaudience. Heat rises into my cheeks but honestly, I’m way more overwhelmed with pride than shame.
Coach Robinson calls the team back to attention to finish out the game, and the rest of us fidget in our seats as they run out the clock with benchwarmers (though they keep Chase on to see how high he can go) until we can celebrate properly.
Finally, the buzzer sounds, and the stands explode. I hug Shannon and even the girls in front of me, all while keeping an eye on Chase accepting one-armed hugs and high fives from everyone on the field. It’s hard to be pissed about a loss when a guy literally set a record defeating you, I guess.
There’s never been a less shocking announcement than the one in which Chase is named MVP, and I clap with pride as he’s awarded the trophy that changes hands from game to game in Stratford tradition. He poses for a couple of pictures, then takes the mic for the usual speech about how everyone played a great game, blah blah blah.
“This was such an amazing night,” he says after the standard opener, “and there’s one person who made it all the more special by being here.” He gestures at the stands, and there’s a quick flash of envy in my brain before I realize his hand is extended towardme. “Look at my girl, up there with my number on her gorgeous face and my name on her arm. How can any guynotpass for four hundred ninety-six yards when he’s got her on his side?”
