The Game

𝟏𝟐

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒆 - 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒖𝒍𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑳𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈

I dressed like I had a plan. White cropped tank, low-rise dark denim with those bright swoops stitched down the legs, and wheat Timbs that made my steps sound sure. I clipped on small hoops, a short choker that kissed my collarbone, a couple thin bracelets. Hair down — long, glossy curls that behaved for once. I slung my black backpack over one shoulder. No purse. Hands free. Heart busy.

On the drive I let last night replay once — August laughing in my passenger seat, the streetlight carving his smile into something I could keep, the kiss that was warm and certain and easy. It settled in me like a coin in a fountain — small, bright, mine. But the truth I didn't tell the steering wheel was the same truth that had been embarrassing me for weeks: my crush on Chris had a life of its own. It was messy, inconvenient, and stubborn. I didn't invite it; it just kept showing up like it knew the door code.

The campus had the clean morning look it only gets before first bell. I cut through the quiet language wing, scrolling a text from Neilah about coffee orders, when a warm hand slid around my wrist and tugged, quick and sure.

My back met the jamb of an empty classroom. The door clicked. The lights were off, blinds half-tilted, dust hanging like glitter that hadn't decided where to land.

"Relax," Chris said, voice low enough that the room felt smaller. "It's me."

He stepped back half a foot, like he wanted me to see he wasn't trying to scare me — just steal a second. He didn't start with a line. He looked. Not fast. Not polite. He took me in the way he takes in the court before a set — head tilted, attention focused. His gaze slid down, paused at my waist, traced the carved lines my abs had finally decided to show up with after months of drills, then climbed. The air-conditioner kicked on. I felt my body answer the air through the fabric. So did he. The flicker that crossed his face — startled, hungry, trying-to-be-cool — made something traitorous flutter low in my stomach.

"You, uh—" he started, then huffed a laugh at himself and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "Never mind."

"What are you doing?" I asked. I kept my voice even, but the nerves were there, same as always with him — not the clumsy kind that trips you, the tight kind that makes you feel every inch of your skin because he likes to get close and make you decide whether to stay.

"Two things," he said. "One — when are we studying? Alvarez is on my head about that homework. I told her the truth. You taught me, I knew how to do it, and I still went out."

"Today after school," I said. "We'll fix it."

His shoulders loosened like my yes let him exhale. "Second thing," he said, softer. "You look... different."

"How?"

"Like..." He gestured uselessly, eyes doing one more slow pass down then up. "Like you mean it."

"I do," I said, and that was somehow an answer to more than one question.

He nodded once, then — because he can't help himself — reached for the loose strap of my backpack and gave it a tiny tug. I swatted his hand. He laughed, did it again, lighter. I hip-checked him. He leaned, quick, and tapped two fingers against my waist; I caught his wrist; he caught mine; we spun that dumb two-step that ends in a smile if you let it. He tried to snatch my phone from the side pocket and I twisted away, bumping his shoulder. He caught my elbows and steadied me — warm palms, careful grip — and for a breath I forgot why we were in a school at all.

"Go to class," I said, dimples betraying me. "Before you make us late."

"Library after school," he said, not asking.