“How do you know that?”
He looks offended.
“I can read. Also there are posters.”
“Right.”
He nods once.
Then, maddeningly calm—“Good luck, Texas.” Before I can react he comes closes, tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear and leaves.
I shiver. I hate him. And also that he—might be right.
Because now I can’t decide whether to tell him to go to hell or thank him or throw a water bottle at his head, and all of those options feel like losing.
So I go with the only one that preserves what’s left of my pride.
I shoulder past him down the narrow hall, the smell of pine soap wafts from his skin. Oddly pleasant. I’m pissed for thinking it.
“I don’t need luck.”
Behind me, he says, “No. You need better taste.”
I don’t turn around.
By seven-thirty that night, the stadium lights are so bright they make everything look sharpened. I worked hard to get here and no one was going to take it for me.
The field glows green and unreal. The air has gone cool enough that every breath feels cleaner on the way in. The stands are fuller than usual—conference play, rivalry game, enough campus energy to turn a Friday night into an event instead of just another line on the schedule.
I should be focused.
But there’s a difference between game focus and inner peace, and Drew Travers managed to vandalize the second one before breakfast.
So now everything in me feels too tight.
My calves.
My jaw.
The place under my ribs where doubt likes to live when someone else is rude enough to point at it.
I retie my ponytail, bounce once on the balls of my feet, and look up toward the stands without meaning to.
And there he is.
Tristan.
Leaning against the rail halfway up in a dark hoodie and baseball cap, one arm folded over the bar, eyes on the field.
On me.
My pulse betrays me instantly.
That’s the problem with him.
He doesn’t need to do much.
Just look at me like I matter and all the little broken places in my logic start stitching themselves into something hopeful again.
