Lakewood 2 – Westbridge 0.
The stadium becomes one single voice.
Drums, chants, kids waving flags, strangers hugging strangers.
Dad laughs, stomps the ground, yells something at Saint who flashes him a thumbs-up.
Mom watches them with shining eyes.
And me…
I watch Cohen.
Standing in the middle of the field, hands on his hips, chest rising, hair sticking to his forehead.
Sweaty. Breathing hard. Laughing.
Alive.
And—damn it—beautiful.
He turns toward the stands.
For a second I think he’s looking our way, but I tell myself that’s impossible.
Too many people, too much noise, too much distance.
And yet, when our eyes meet—just for a heartbeat—my stomach flips.
“Sloane?”
“Hm?”
“You weren’t breathing for like a minute,” Mom says, serene, as if giving a weather update.
“I’m fine.”
“Of course.”
The game ends with the crowd on its feet, chants shaking the glass, and Dad hugging half the coaching staff.
I clutch my scarf—still stained with mustard and ketchup—and smile before I can stop myself.
Lakewood won.
Cohen scored.
And I am officially a walking disaster.
26
Extra Sessions
Cohen
Her office is exactly as it was the last time I was here: organized, fragrant, too bright.
Yet… something is different.
