The Game

𝟐𝟐

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒚 𝑻𝒘𝒐 - 𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒘𝒐𝒐𝒅

The ride to Brentwood was an hour and a half, give or take a traffic light and a driver with a heavy foot. I thought I'd be next to August the whole way — that's what we'd decided in the hallway — but when we loaded, Chris leaned across the aisle to him and said in that captain-voice, "Coach wants starters up front for the first fifteen — adjustments." It sounded official enough to fool a freshman.

It didn't fool me.

I gave Chris a look over the seats like really? He didn't blink. He just tipped his chin toward the row across from him, a private little come here with two fingers. A bunch of JV boys were still sorting out who sat where; August dropped into the second row like the lie was plausible and drummed his fingers against his duffel. For the first fifteen minutes, fine.

Only fifteen.

I could do fifteen.

I slid my backpack into the overhead, squeezed past two elbows and one oversized hoodie, and stepped into Chris's row. He sat sideways, one knee up, the curve of his mouth holding a smile that wasn't all the way safe.

"What's up?" I asked, trying to keep it neutral.

"Nothing," he said, too quickly. "Just wanted to say hi."

"Hi," I said, and it came out softer than I meant.

"You excited?"

"For the game?" I asked, because of course that's what he meant. Captain stuff.

"Nah," he said, smirk moving, eyes not leaving mine. "For coming home with me tonight."

Heat climbed my throat. I pretended to dig around my bag for the math packet. "I can help you finish this," I said instead. "If you still want."

His smile bent into something that almost looked boyish. "Yeah," he said, easy. "We can do that."

"Aliya," someone called from up front — my name, stretched by noise and diesel hum. I looked up and there was August, standing in the aisle with his bag already moved and his eyes on me. He had found a new seat — closer — like the fifteen was up by his internal clock alone.

Something flashed across Chris's face. I didn't have a name for it — not jealousy, not anger exactly, not nothing. It was quick and sharp, there and gone. I stood anyway.

"I'll talk to you later," I said, because it was easier than asking what the look meant. He dipped his chin like okay, like I'll be there when you're done pretending you don't feel this, and I stepped into the aisle.

I dropped into the seat next to August and he grinned like the bus was now correctly arranged.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, voice pitched low so it didn't bounce down the aisle.

"Hey," I said back, letting my shoulder bump his.

"What did Chris want?" he asked, not accusing, just curious in that way that made my chest feel too small.

"He just wanted to say hi," I said, and left it there.

"You going to be cheering me on?"

"Maybe."

He gave me a look. "You don't gotta be doing backflips for me."

I laughed despite myself. "You know I'm going to be cheering for you."

"Good," he said, satisfied. He slid his hand into mine, warm and callused from a ball he never really put down. The bus lurched into motion and the windows turned the world into a scroll — parking lot, sidewalk, the same two oak trees outside the administrative building, then the neighborhood rolling away under the early evening sky.