“She had bad energy.”
“You are jealous.”
“I am strategically invested in the believability of this arrangement.”
Lana laughed so hard she had to grab the seat in front of her.
On the next play, Drew exploded off the line.
The defender reached for him and missed. Drew cut inside, then outside, so fast the guy’s hips turned wrong. Dante dropped back, scanned, and threw deep.
The whole stadium rose before the ball landed.
Drew stretched.
Caught it.
Kept his feet.
Touchdown.
The place erupted.
I was on my feet before I realized I had moved, screaming with everyone else, hands in the air, heart pounding like I had just scored myself.
Drew tossed the ball to the ref, then turned toward our section.
Toward me.
He pointed.
Right at me.
The camera caught it on the big screen.
My face appeared for half a second in his oversized jersey, flushed and wide-eyed and entirely too happy.
The stadium lost its mind.
I covered my mouth.
Drew laughed from the field like the absolute menace he was.
And for one perfect, terrifying minute, it felt real.
Not campus optics or pity repair or Thanksgiving leverage or New Year’s expiration dates.
Drew Travers scored, looked for me first, and I stood in the stands wearing his name like I had a right to it.
I wanted that right.
The thought hit so hard I sat down.
Lana’s smile faded a little. “Isa?”
“I’m fine.”
She did not believe me.
