Not in the dramatic, scandal-splashed, glass-shattering way my life seemed to specialize in lately. No, this was more like the relentless way of being a senior with a job, a house full of secrets, romantic ups and downs I couldn’t have predicted, and a calendar I built while refusing to acknowledge I was one person with a single nervous system. Pretty sure I was still in denial over that.
But we’d made it.
Friday night came with stadium lights and much cooler air and a sky so clear it felt like it had been scrubbed clean just for us. The kind of night that made everything look sharper—helmets gleaming, breath visible, cheerleaders’ voices cutting through the noise like bright ribbons.
We survived the game.
The guyswon.
And when I saywon, I mean won. It was a total go sports moment that made the stands shake and the band go nuts and the student section scream like we were singlehandedly responsible for the score.
Bubba and Jake were on fire—besides the fact I knew they were the best, Coop and Archie told me every single play, interception, and run they were pivotal in.
Pride was a weird thing. It snuck in when you weren’t looking and then suddenly you were yelling yourself hoarse with your hand over your mouth like you could contain it.
I did manage to do some homework during halftime, because I was still me, and because if I didn’t, my future would come for my throat. Archie went for food—three hot dogs and chili fries for me, and drinks, with Coop to assist while I saved our seats. They were excellent. But even that felt… lighter. Like I could exist in my own skin again without constantly flinching.
After the final whistle, when the team flooded the field and bodies crashed together in sweaty, joyous chaos, I caught Bubba’s eye and he pointed at me like he’d just scored the touchdownforme.
Jake, as usual, acted like he’d done it all alone and the rest of the team should probably thank him personally. He climbed the bleachers two at a time to get to me and picked me up into a spinning, sweaty hug that made me laugh.
“Okay,” I wheezed into his shoulder, laughing. “I’m proud, I’m proud, put me down before I die?—”
He did not put me down, not right away.
Coop hauled me into a hug so hard, my feet left the ground. As soon as he released me, Archie got me next. He hugged me tight, then pressed a fierce, but swift kiss to my lips that held as much promise as desire.
When he let me go, he didn’t move away. Instead, he brushed his hand to my lower back as his mouth found my ear.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yes,” I whispered back. “I’m… yes.”
His thumb pressed once into the small of my back. A quiet promise. A grounding touch. For the first time in weeks, Ibelieved that the good parts of life might still be allowed to exist right alongside the complicated parts.
“Let’s go feed the champions, they deserve a celebration.” He winked and we were off.
Saturday morning was the parade—because tradition demanded that once you survived the adrenaline of Friday, you were required to stand on a float and wave at people like a pageant contestant. In years past, I’d helped decorate these floats. Not this year though, so it was all new to me.
The parade was loud and bright and full of candy being hurled like projectile sugar missiles. Kids screamed. Parents waved. Teachers seemed to be as wound up as we were.
Jake and Bubba rode with the team and tossed handfuls of candy into the crowd like they were benevolent kings.
Rachel and I watched from the curb, in t-shirts with hoodies tied around our waist like we’d just paused while out for a jog. We’d definitelynotbeen out for a jog. She leaned close enough to mutter, “If Jake makes eye contact with that toddler again, he’s going to start signing autographs.”
“He would,” I said solemnly.
Rachel snorted. “He absolutely would.”
And then—like the universe was in on the joke—Jake turned and waved directly at a little kid, then put his hand to his chest like he’d just been deeply moved by fame.
Rachel groaned. “I hate him.”
“You love him,” I corrected.
“No, that’s you,” she said with a snort, then added, “I just hate that you love him.”
By the time Saturday night arrived, I was running purely on caffeine, adrenaline, and whatever stubborn gene made me refuse to crumble.
