Page 11 of People Like Us

After a moment, he held the cup out to me. I eyed it warily.

“I brought this for you,” he said. “Thought it might help you focus.”

“What is it?” I asked, taking the thermos in my hand just as his finger landed on the second tap of a trio. I lifted the rim to my nose and inhaled deeply. A sweet blend of vanilla and sugar drifted up. His shoulders tightened as he watched me.

“Coffee,” he answered a beat late. “I wasn’t sure if you liked it, but I thought it might help.”

“I love coffee,” I said, taking a long pull. The warm, sweet liquid slid down my throat. “I’m just not allowed to drink it.”

His cheeks grew coral and I added: “No one is going to arrest you for giving me caffeine, August.”

August’s flush darkened. “This isn’t like giving a gremlin water, then?”

I laughed and shook my head. “No.”

At that moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Deal burst in through the back entrance from the faculty lot. She unlocked the door between August and I as more students flooded into the hall behind us. I mouthed a quiet thank you as I slid past August into the classroom.

“It’s too cold for this.” Lindsey shivered, hugging herself as we draped a woolen blanket over the slick, frost-coated metal bleachers. Tiny beads of moisture clung to the fabric’s fibers, frosting our legs.

“We’ll warm up with hot cocoa once the concession line dies down,” I replied, sliding onto the bench. The stadium lights glared off the dew-frosted field as the referee’s whistle signaled kickoff.

I’d never mastered the rules of football, but I was there to support Andy, and that was enough. I mimicked the collective breaths of the crowd—wincing when they groaned, roaring when they cheered, jeering when the other side scored.

Lindsey, by contrast, practically glowed with football fervor. She tracked every play, her breath puffing in little clouds. When she nodded toward the concession stand, I volunteered to fetch our treats. She gave a curt nod, shoving cash into my hand before I could protest.

The line shuffled forward at a snail’s pace. I shifted my weight, bouncing on my feet against the cold. The woman in front of me—a frazzled mom balancing a toddler on her hip—shot me a narrow-eyed look. I stopped bouncing immediately.

I fished my phone from the back pocket of my brown corduroy pants. My thumb scrolled through recent texts. All my friends were on the field or engrossed in the game—except August. His number was unsaved, an odd string of digits that I’d learned by heart. I tapped the thread open and typed:

Are you at the game?

A minute crawled by. The distant smack of shoulder pads punctuated my impatience before my phone buzzed with his reply

I’m going to assume you mean football. Organized sport isn’t really my thing.

I swallowed a chuckle. My fingers hovered, then tapped:

It’s not mine either, but they’re something to do. What is your thing?

The woman behind me huffed. I glanced up and saw that the line had edged forward. The man at the counter handed me two steaming cups wrapped in cardboard sleeves and a pile of nachos in a paper tray. My gloved fingers curled around the warmth as I paid and turned back toward the stands.

Cradling the tray and balancing both cups, I hustled back. My phone vibrated against my leg. I slid into the seat beside Lindsey and set the nachos between us. Wisps of cocoa steam curled in the air.

“Thanks,” Lindsey said, her attention glued to the field. She curled her fingers around the cup and blew across the surface until ripples appeared in the chocolate foam.

I lifted my phone and read August’s reply:

Roleplay games. Very nerdy, I know.

I grinned, warmth blooming beyond the cocoa’s reach.

At least you are self-aware. I texted back.

I am painfully self-aware of my nerdiness, Lola.

My lip twitched into a half-smile. Lindsey craned her neck, curious.

“Who are you messaging?” she asked, scooping a cheese-coated chip from the tray.