Too late.
I already am distracted.
Every time I run near the stands, I see her again—
Sloane sitting beside Katherine Heart, legs crossed, eyes glued to the field.
Lips pressed together.
Fingers gripping a hotdog.
A smile slips out of me.
Mistake.
A defender strips the ball off me and launches a counterattack.
Westbridge shoots, Derek deflects—
the ball grazes the post.
“Jesus, Becker!” Blaze yells as we drop back into position. “Who the hell are you thinking about?!”
“About how slow you are, maybe!” I yell back, but my voice is tighter than usual.
The halftime whistle blows.
Zero-zero.
I wipe my face with my jersey, inhale.
Then I look toward the stands again.
Sloane drops her gaze—
but I know she was staring.
And this time, it’s not a hallucination.
25
A Mustard-Covered Disaster and Other Bad Decisions
Sloane
Halftime.
I wasn’t hungry.
I swear.
Then someone yelled, “Fresh meat pies!” and fifteen minutes later I’m staring at a tray that screams PMS, stress-eating, and emotional instability.
Translation: I have no idea what to bite into first—an almost-finished hot dog, half-cold fries, and a steaming meat pie.
My mother looks at me like she’s observing a rare anthropological specimen.
“Sweetheart, are you planning to eat the box too?”
