Ezra leans forward, elbows on his knees, and he looks at me with an expression that almost looks like a mix of curiosity and pity. I can't tell, and I’m not sure I want to.
I can still feel Elijah's arm behind me, the ghost of his touch brushing the ends of my hair. It shouldn't affect me. Itreallyshouldn't. But it does. It settles low in my stomach, irritating and warm and impossible to ignore.
Before I can come up with an excuse to bolt, River sprints out onto the pitch. His grin is instant the moment he spots us, and just like that, everything else fades. I shoot up from my seat, cupping my hands around my mouth as I cheer for him. I tap my cheeks—showing off the painted stripes—pinch the hem of my football top he made me wear, and he bursts out laughing, tipping his head back before giving me a big thumbs up.
God, I love that idiot.
I drop back into my seat, chest a little lighter, until I realise both brothers are watching me. Ezra with something like amusement. Elijah, with a heated glare that, if it were anybody else looking at me the way he is, could be mistaken for desire.
I’m going crazy, clearly.
And Rose?
She's glued to her phone, nails clicking, not even pretending to care or watch River. Shocker.
I feel myself consumed with rage, and I’m about to snatch it off her and throw it, because she should be watching her son, when I feel Elijah shift beside me. The space between us shrinks—barely, softly—but I feel it. I feel him. The warmth of his body, the brush of his knees, knocks into mine again. This time, I don't move, and neither does he.
My pulse jumps, traitorous and loud.
His gaze flicks down for the quickest second—cheeks, lips, throat—before rising to meet mine.
I look away first.
If I don't, I might forget every reason I’m supposed to hate him. And that's dangerous.
So, so dangerous.
They won.
I've never screamed so loudly or jumped so high in my entire life. The second River landed that winning goal, the stadium erupted—people spilling out of their seats, whistles, shouting, the whole place vibrating with adrenaline. And I was right there with them, practically shaking with how proud I was of him.
The match wasn't the only thing keeping my heart in my throat.
It washim.
Elijah had watched me the entire game. Not in a creepy way. More of a constant, checking to make sure I’m still okay, way. Every time the crowd went wild, every time I leaned forward, gripping the edge of my seat, and every time my breath caught—his eyes were there. On me. Quiet, steady, unbearably present.
He also kept touching my hair.
Not obvious enough for anyone but me to notice. Just soft little grazes of his fingers at the ends, like he couldn't help brushing them each time he shifted beside me. Each touch was featherlight, but it still shot through me like he'd pressed his mouth to my neck.
Rose didn't notice any of it; she was too busy smiling down at her phone as if she were still a teenage girl texting her crush, not a grown woman watching her son play the most important match of the season.
I’m not sure what their deal is, but the second that final whistle blew, I was out of there.
Everyone filters out of the stadium in noisy clusters—families heading home, players ecstatic as they go on about celebrating their win. The last place I want to be is crammed in a car withthem,pretending like I’m okay when I’m not, but I’m good at hiding it. I hang back, pressing myself against the cool concrete wall, letting the crowd thin until it's just stragglers and fading footsteps.
A few guys from the opposing team walk past, still damp from their showers, the scent of soap and adrenaline trailing behind them. The sun is sinking low enough to paint everything gold; the wind bites at my bare skin, chills climbing up my arms. I rub at them half-heartedly, leg bouncing up and down as I wait for River.
“Hey.”
I turn to find a guy leaning casually against the wall, brown eyes catching the last of the sunset, messy, damp hair falling over his forehead.
“I was right,” he carries on.
“About what?” I tilted my head to the side, keeping my tone light.
He doesn't miss a beat. “I told myself that you would be pretty… but damn, you're hotter than I expected.”
