"I am standing right here!" Archie protests, his voice carrying the indignation of a man being publicly slandered by his rinkmates. "My crossovers are improving! I only fell twice last session!"
"Twice that you remember!" Jace adds helpfully.
Their bickering fades as they disappear through the exit, and I am left smiling in the hallway like an idiot, the warmth of their friendship lingering in my chest like the afterglow of a good meal.
I pull out my phone.
The rose gold surface catches the fluorescent hallway light, still pristine in its pink bow case, and I navigate to the group chat with a fluency that I am quietly proud of given that I was fighting this device for my life three days ago. My thumbs move across the keyboard, composing a message to the guys.
Mae: Class just ended. I know you guys had early drills. I might go to the library or find somewhere to camp out. When are you done?
The response comes from Cal first, his typing speed a direct reflection of his personality: fast, blunt, and allergic to punctuation.
Cal: done with my drills. raph and etienne staying behind coach wants to talk game strategy. first game tonight tho
I blink at the screen.
Mae: Wait. The first game is TONIGHT?? Holy crap. Already??
Cal: yeah lol time flies when ur having fun or whatever. u coming?
Mae: I could! I didn't realize it was so soon. That's exciting!
Cal: only if ur wearing my jersey
The message sits on my screen, bold and unambiguous, and the flush that crawls up my neck has no business being this intense over a text message from a man I cuddled to sleep forty-eight hours ago. I press my lips together, suppressing the grin that is threatening to split my face in half, and respond with a string of emojis that includes the shushing face, the blushing face, and a hockey stick because the phone's emoji selection is extensive and I intend to abuse it.
I giggle to myself.
Standing in the middle of a Valentine's-decimated hallway, giggling at my phone like a character in the exact kind of romantic comedy I used to mock from the safety of communal housing common rooms. The irony is vivid. The happiness is vivid. Both coexist in my chest with a warmth that I am learning to accept rather than interrogate.
"Oh, you think you are the shit because you got the latest new phone?"
The voice cuts through my moment like a blade through silk.
I look up.
Vanessa Voss is standing four feet in front of me.
She is flanked by her usual entourage, three girls whose names I have never bothered to learn because they function less as individuals and more as an extension of Vanessa's presence, a chorus line of matching sneers and coordinated hostility.Vanessa herself is in full form today, her platinum blonde hair straightened to a razor edge, her uniform blazer cinched at the waist with a belt that probably costs more than my entire semester's textbook budget, her blue eyes fixed on me with the particular disdain she reserves for people she considers beneath her social altitude.
The hallway around us has not emptied enough for this confrontation to go unwitnessed. A handful of students linger near their lockers, pretending not to watch while very clearly watching.
I frown.
Not at the insult. At the interruption. My phone was making me happy and this woman appeared like a summoned demon to disrupt that, and the annoyance I feel is less about her words and more about the stolen moment.
I turn my phone off and slide it into my blazer pocket, zipping the compartment shut with a deliberateness that is equal parts protective instinct and pointed statement.
Vanessa huffs.
"You do not have to hide it or anything." Her voice drips with a manufactured sweetness that could rot teeth. "What, scared we are going to take it?"
"Yeah, actually." I meet her gaze with a directness that I can feel my younger self watching from a distance, marveling at and terrified of in equal measure. "I am worried you will ruin it, and it is precious to me. Better safe than sorry."
The girls behind her exchange glances. The kind of rapid, silent communication that packs of mean girls have perfected into an art form, entire conversations conducted through eyebrow movements and pursed lips.
Vanessa's nostrils flare.
