The Game

𝟗

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑵𝒊𝒏𝒆 - 𝑨𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

I got dressed slow that morning, letting the routine settle my nerves. I pulled a fitted, long-sleeve black top over my head and smoothed a gray pleated skirt over my hips, the fabric swishing just above mid-thigh when I moved. My favorite black knee-high boots grounded the look — clean leather, polished the night before — and I decided they were staying on all day. No switching, no emergency shoe box, no second-guessing. Simple gold studs and a delicate chain at my collarbone were all the jewelry I wore — just earrings and a necklace — neat and understated. I did light makeup, brushed my hair until the curls fell soft over my shoulders, and took one last look in the mirror.

Senior photos were scheduled for late morning. That thought pulsed under everything — not a magazine spread, not anything dramatic — just my official pictures for the yearbook and for my family. It made me want to look like myself, not a character.

Downstairs, the house smelled like coffee and the citrus cleaner our housekeeper loved. I grabbed a bottle of water and a granola bar and was halfway through a bite when Mom padded in, already dressed for work, blouse crisp, hair pinned back.

"Morning, baby," she said, leaning in to kiss my forehead. "You look beautiful. Senior pictures today, right?"

"Yeah," I said, chewing, then added once I'd swallowed, "They slotted me in around eleven-thirty. I should be back in class before lunch is over."

She smiled. "Good. Don't overthink it. Be yourself. The camera likes you best that way."

"I'll try," I said, and I meant it.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, then at me. "I have to run. Break a leg — not literally."

I laughed. "See you tonight."

She squeezed my shoulder and disappeared, her heels clicking toward the foyer. A minute later, the door closed, and quiet settled back over the house.

Fifteen minutes later, heavy footsteps pounded the stairs. Stephan came down tugging a hoodie over his head, and little Anthony trailed behind him cradling a teddy bear bigger than his torso.

I scooped Anthony up with a grin. "What's up, little man?"

"Good morning!" he chirped, muffled behind the bear's plush ear.

Stephan opened the fridge and took a long pull straight from the milk gallon. I smacked the back of his head, and he glared at me like I'd violated the Geneva Conventions.

"Use a glass," I said.

"Y'all are so dramatic in the morning." He grabbed a cup, muttering.

The doorbell rang — the sitter, right on time. If we didn't leave now, Gracie would wedge herself into our day with a thirty-minute story about a neighbor's cat finding religion. I passed Anthony to her with a round of thanks and finger-waved as Stephan and I slipped out the door.

Outside, the air had that cool-then-warm feel that meant the forecast couldn't decide. I unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel. Stephan threw himself into the passenger seat and stretched his legs out like he owned the space.

"So," he said as I backed out of the drive, voice all fake casual, "Dad told me you're tutoring a jock."

I cut him a side-eye. "Did he."

"Uh-huh."

"And what else did he say?"

"That it's one of the guys on the team." He waited. "Which one?"