I’m about to fall into another pit of guilt and regret when we enter the stadium, and the crowd’s energy makes it impossible to feel anything but excited— they’re so loud that they drown out my thoughts, and the world becomes a blur of school colors as we creep closer and closer to kickoff. We’re in the student section, which smells like cheap beer and smoky cool air and freedom. Maddy leaps up on her seat to whoop when the camera pans over us, and I laugh at her enthusiasm.
I catch it, though, when the crowd roars for the team— the players are coming out of the tunnel, clean white pants and strong shoulders, heads held high, helmets on. I immediately begin looking for Sebastian, but I’ve never actually seen him from a distance. I scan the players, growing frustrated, when I suddenly remember he’s got a giant number 11 on his chest. That’s literally the way they identify them on the field, Ashlynn, I nag myself as my eyes lock on the number.
He’s in the front— he’s the captain, I think. He’s a senior quarterback, so that seems to make sense. He’s walking in long, confident strides, and even though I know he’s just walking toward the benches, it looks a little like he’s walking toward me. My stomach flips, and I bite my lip as my eyes drift down his arms. I was in those arms last night— he held me last night, lifted me up against him, never tiring, moving my body around him, moving his fingers into me—
God, it felt so good. I want it again. I want it now. I know he won’t be able to pick me out of the crowd, but I fantasize for a moment about him doing just that, about him calling me down to the field, taking me somewhere secret in the stadium and fucking me like he promised he would—
“You totally have a thing for him,” Maddy snickers, poking me. “Stare much?”
I jump, but then flush— the more I deny it, the more she’ll tease me. “He’s hot, that’s all.”
“Maybe you should try to see him again,” Emily suggests. They know nothing about last night, of course.
“He probably wouldn’t remember me. I’m just some pizza pig he gave a jersey to,” I say quickly.
“Then you could remind him. In a state of undress,” Maddy says, laughing devilishly, and I join in, hoping it hides the fact that I want to do exactly that.
We’re playing Sanderson State, a small school that we’re expected to easily beat. This doesn’t make watching Sebastian play any less thrilling, though. Sebastian owns the field, but not like a dictator— like a general. The other guys respond to his gestures and shouts, and he’s unafraid to pass the ball, completely trusting his teammates to pull their weight rather than trying to be the single hero.
The star receiver is none other than the asshole door guy, I realize— Conor. Despite the fact that Conor is a total asshole, he and Sebastian make an amazing team. They seem linked, each knowing exactly where the other will be, when he’ll be there. Conor is fast, too, zipping to the ball to catch passes Sebastian throws that seem almost destined for an empty space on the field. By halftime, I’m leaping up and down, shouting with everyone else, like Berkfield winning this game is the most important thing to ever happen.
I’m out of breath from the celebrating when the game ends, and it’s clear from the way the students around us are filing out that the party isn’t going to stop simply because the clock has run out— we won the game, after all, so it’s time to move the gang to local bars, restaurants, and houses. My roommates and I link hands to avoid losing one another in the crowd, and we laugh as we weave through the chaos and out the stadium gates, where vendors are shoving unofficial FIRST GAME VICTORY! merchandise at us from all sides, and a few sign spinners nearly clobber us in their efforts to direct us to the kebab place, or the dive bar, or Papa Pig’s (thank god they didn’t ask me to spin a sign out in front of the stadium).
I hear someone call my name, but assume they’re talking to someone else until the voice persists. I stop the train of my roommates to turn and look— it’s Sarah, from the advocacy group. She’s grinning at me eagerly, winding her way to me.
“Oh man, thank god I caught up with you. I was looking for you on Facebook, but couldn’t find you anywhere—“
“I don’t have Facebook,” I say, shrugging. Truthfully, I deleted all my social media after Aunt Tessa died, when the mix of condolences and shitty messages from Dennis Slate fans got to be too much.