Then her gaze lifts and finds mine.
And for the first time all day, she lets herself smile.
It’s small.
It’s real.
It hits me like a punch.
I stand and clap, chest tight.
Sloane’s smile fades a fraction as her eyes flick past me, toward the empty space Pops should have filled.
The loss sneaks in even inside the win.
I swallow hard and keep clapping anyway.
Because the point is not to fix it.
The point is to be here.
—
After the game, I stay in my seat, waiting for Sloane to come out of the locker room, the floor having turned into a stormof bodies—players hugging, students crowding the rail, Coach talking too loudly, the band still playing like they can keep joy alive by brute force.
Jade finds me again before I can escape.
She points at my shirt and laughs. “I’m sorry—who allowed this?”
“Her father,” I mutter.
Blakely appears behind her, expression unreadable. “I support this choice.”
Jade gasps, “Blakely supports romance. We’re in the end times.”
“Please don’t make this weird,” I warn, rubbing the back of my neck.
Jade leans closer, stage whispering loudly, “So, are you, like…in love? Or?—”
“Go home and shower,” I cut in.
Jade beams. “Yes, sir.”
Blakely’s gaze flicks past me. “She’s coming.”
My pulse jumps anyway.
Sloane steps out from the cluster a moment later, duffel slung over her shoulder, sweaty and glowing in that post-game way that makes her look younger than she ever allows herself to be.
Her eyes land on me.
She rolls her eyes. “Take it off.”
I lift a brow. “We just won.”
“That’s not relevant,” she snaps, but her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile.
Jade whistles. “Toxic banter! I love it!”
