Silver fucking linings.
After we’re done with our routine, we jump and twirl to the entrance where the players are coming out.
Our mascot, a panda with a pitchfork, is fighting with the Knights’ mascot, some sort of a horse.
The Knights come out among their cheerleaders first, and then it’s our team’s turn. They bulldoze through the large banner with the team’s logo on it, led by number ten, the quarterback, and seventeen, the wide receiver. They’re all dressed in their black and white uniforms and helmets, and black lines are smeared under their eyes.
I swallow, pretending the sweat that’s gathering between my brows is due to exhaustion and not the fact that I’m focusing way too hard on a certain number ten.
A lot of hollering and howling comes from the players, their battle cries filling the air.
But not Sebastian.
A haze covers his intense eyes, visible through the opening in his helmet. It’s like he’s in a different zone and no one can reach him.
Or touch him.
This side of him has always hinted at what he is more so than the image he shoves on everyone so that they believe he’s the good senator’s grandson.
There’s nothing good here.
His gaze zeroes in on me. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but he pierces me down as if I’m the game he’s intent on conquering tonight.
His lips curl at the side and I swear I see what resembles a wolfish smirk before his eyes tactfully slip from mine.
I resist the urge to look behind me in case he was having that eye contact voodoo with someone else. But somewhere deep down, I know, I just know it was directed at me.
What the hell?
We go back to the sidelines to cheer during the game. And while I usually hate this part, tonight’s game is actually intense. The Knights aren’t letting up and our team barely keeps a lead.
The fans goes wild when Owen scores. Prescott throws both Reina, then Brianna in the air as a form of celebration.
We stay on our toes, cheering and doing our halftime routine.
It’s exhausting, but the adrenaline runs wild among us. The energy wafting off the field in waves is both intoxicating and addictive.
Near the end of the game, we’re down, but there’s a chance to turn the tables and win.
Sebastian passes the ball to Owen, who tosses it back once the quarterback is clear. Then the Devils’ captain runs in a blur of motion as if he’s weightless. The cheers grow louder and louder and I find myself clenching my fists in the stupid pom-poms.
One of the Knights’ players tries to tackle Sebastian to the ground and he loses his footing with a collective Ohhh coming from the crowd.
But before the others pile up on him, he slips from under the player and sprints at full speed until he scores.
The crowd and the cheerleaders go crazy, and even our mascot dances in the face of the other one. The coach shouts at the top of his lungs as the players bury Sebastian underneath them.
It’s a myriad of celebration and dancing and loud music. My heart thumps and I barely keep up with the routine.
Soon after, the time runs out and the referees signal the end of the game.
The Devils carry Sebastian on their shoulders and several media outlets try to land an exclusive interview with the star of the night.
That’s when I realize there are tears in my eyes. I got so excited that I didn’t notice I was that invested in the stupid game. I wipe them with the back of my hand, because if anyone accuses me of crying, I’ll throat-stab them.
And I’m totally not going to ogle the quarterback tonight.
A reporter is asking Sebastian about the reason behind his energy as we pass behind them, heading to our locker room.