The Game

𝟏𝟕

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏 - 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝑲𝒏𝒐𝒘

The sun was just climbing over the row of maples when I turned into the Crestwood parking lot and eased into my usual space near the back fence. Friday at our school always carried a buzz, but game day thickened it — the kind of hum that got under your skin and made the cold air feel electric. I cut the engine and let the quiet settle before I reached for my backpack in the passenger seat.

I'd taken my time getting ready because I wanted to walk in already knowing who I was. I wore a fitted white crop tank that hit right at my ribs and a cobalt-and-white cropped jacket zipped to mid-chest, the sleeves pushed to my forearms. Vintage low-rise jeans hugged my hips and relaxed down my legs to crisp white sneakers. My hair was done in soft waves that brushed my shoulders, and I kept the makeup clean — a little concealer, a warm brown wash on my lids, mascara, and a gloss that tasted faintly like vanilla. Simple gold hoops, and the floral gold letter A pendant sat in the dip of my collarbone. No glasses today; I wanted nothing between me and the day.

I slid my phone, charger, AirPods, and a granola bar into the front pocket of my backpack, shouldered the weight, and stepped out into the cool morning. The lot was waking up — a couple of cheerleaders stretching by the red curb, the cross-country guys jogging past in hoodies and shorts like the temperature was a rumor, and Coach crossing the asphalt with a clipboard swinging like a metronome. The distant thump of bass leaked from somebody's trunk two rows over. Crestwood already felt like it had its own heartbeat.

Inside, the building smelled like floor wax, copier toner, and a hint of the cinnamon rolls someone always smuggled into first period. I cut down the main hall, past the trophy cases and the giant photo of last year's team, eyes on the run of red lockers that held my morning. I was already reaching for the lock when a warm hand circled my forearm — not rough, just sure — and pulled.

The door of a random classroom clicked shut behind me. It was one of those rooms that looked bigger when it was empty: rows of desks in straight lines, the whiteboard still ghosted with last night's lesson, blinds half-open to a wash of pale light.

He stood a few steps away, back turned, shoulders easy and unmistakable.

"Morning," Chris said, turning just enough for the curve of his mouth to appear.

"Morning," I said, breath evening out as I dropped my backpack onto the nearest desk. "You have my number. You don't have to pull me into rooms."

He didn't answer right away. His eyes made a slow circuit — shoes to necklace and back — lingering for a beat on the pendant at my throat like it was a word he recognized. The attention warmed the small room in ways the heater never managed.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

"You sure are looking fine," he said, voice dipping, like he meant it even if he planned to pretend he didn't.

Heat slid up my neck and I tucked a wave of hair behind my ear. "Thanks. What did you want?"

He took a step toward me, then another, and I matched him with a step back without deciding to. The pale cinderblock met my shoulder blades. He planted his left palm on the wall beside my head and leaned in, not touching me, but making me feel like the air between us now owed him rent. His right hand came up, slow and deliberate, and one finger tilted my chin until my face angled to his.

"Dressing for anyone special?" he asked, the question soft and shameless at the same time.

I felt my voice trip over itself. "N-no."