The Game

𝟏𝟎

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒆𝒏 - 𝑺𝒐 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔

The last bell rang and the school exhaled — lockers slammed, sneakers squeaked, a thousand conversations spilled into the halls at once. I felt weirdly awake, like my skin had more room in it. I'd put my contacts in that morning and gone curly — a deep side part, coils loose and springy over my shoulders. The new outfit helped my mood, too: white cropped tank under a soft gray zip-hoodie, sleeves shoved to my elbows; light denim shorts that fit just right; simple gold studs and a slim chain catching the fluorescent light whenever I turned my head. I didn't need anything louder than that. I wanted to look like myself and feel like I could say what I meant.

"Ready for gym hell?" Ja'Colby fell into step beside me, dramatics already at a ten.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I said. "But I'm over yesterday. New day. If anybody tries me, I'm speaking up for myself. I'm actually tired of swallowing it."

"Okay, chest." He grinned. "I'll be courtside with commentary."

We hit my locker. I popped it open and checked the tiny mirror taped inside. Contacts made my eyes look brighter, sharper. I fluffed my curls, slung my bag on, and tucked my phone into the hoodie pocket. On the walk to the East gym I opened Instagram and tapped through Close Friends rings: Neilah posted a practice clip — that turn sequence was nasty; Stephan uploaded chaos with his friends and a filter no one asked for; London shared a dumb meme that made me laugh out loud at nothing. Little things, normal things. The world beyond whatever noise waited in the gym.

We pushed through the double doors and the old-gym smell hit — rubber, floor cleaner, that baked-in sweat only a hundred seasons can leave. A few guys were already running layup lines. More trickled out of the locker room in clusters, dribbling lazily, laughing too loud.

I dropped my bag on the first row of bleachers and was halfway through another story when my phone suddenly wasn't in my hand anymore.

"August," I said without looking up, already smiling in spite of myself. "Give me my phone."

He held it just above my reach like a villain in a cartoon. "I'm doing a wellness check," he said, thumbs flicking. "If your screen time says twelve hours again, I'm calling an intervention."

"Boy, I will embarrass you," I warned, stretching for it.

"Please," he said, eyes finally skimming my face like he'd been saving it for dessert, "you already do."

I gave him the pout — just a little push of my bottom lip. He caved instantly, ducked in, pressed a quick kiss to my mouth, and set the phone gently into my palm like he was awarding a medal. Then he didn't move back. He planted another kiss at the corner of my mouth, skated his lips up my cheek to my temple, dotted one along my jaw, his arm snaking around my waist and pulling me closer like it was where I belonged.

"August," I laughed, trying to sound stern and failing, "you're doing too much."

"You wore this to make me fail my self-control exam," he murmured, breath warm against my skin. "That little shirt — that little waist — those curls? Cruel."

"Get in line," I said, somehow even as my knees got lighter.

"Only if you come with me," he shot back, still grinning as he laced our fingers and tugged me toward the baseline. He tucked me in behind him and wrapped both arms around my waist from the front — completely unnecessary and completely specific to him. He leaned in like he was going to steal one more kiss — lips hovering a breath from mine —

The office door smacked open.

My dad strode onto the court with his clipboard and whistle, the kind of entrance that made everybody sober up. August sprang back, hands up like he'd been caught with state secrets.