I reminded myself of that all the way to the stadium.
It didn’t help.
The game atmosphere was electric. Stanford football under the lights had its own kind of religion—music shaking the stands, student section screaming, cameras flashing, the field impossibly green. I limped carefully down the steps with Lana beside me and my heart in my throat.
People noticed the jersey immediately.
A girl near the aisle whispered, “She’s wearing Travers.”
Someone else said, “That’s actually iconic.”
I pretended not to hear.
I absolutely heard.
Down on the field, players were warming up in controlled chaos. Helmets, pads, sharp cuts, bodies moving with violent precision. I found Drew without meaning to.
He was running a route.
Fast.
I had seen him on campus. In class. At dinner. At lunch with fries in his hand and arrogance all over his face.
I had not really watched him work.
Not like this.
Drew on a football field was different. Bigger somehow. Sharper. All that ridiculous physical confidence suddenly made sense when he cut across the turf and separated from the defender like the air itself owed him space. The ball came, spiraling hard and clean, and he caught it without breaking stride.
My breath caught.
He was not just pretty muscle and bad decisions.
He was good.
Brilliant, maybe.
That did something to me.
Something humiliating.
Lana leaned close. “You look proud.”
“I look normal.”
“You look like your fake boyfriend just discovered fire and you want to clap.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
Drew jogged back toward the sideline. Dante said something to him, then pointed up toward our section.
Drew looked.
Found me.
Stopped.
