Please meet him.
There is no winning without you.
My Leora.
– Ev
My Leora. My light. I didn’t even know what my name meant. Why does he have to be so perfect? Why did he have to come intomy life at a time where I am trying to escape it? Why can’t he let me go?
Because you’re his light.
But he is mine.
Stupid, stupid girl.
Hours later, I find myself standing fifty feet from Senior Tree. I don't know what kind of tree it is, but it's a decently sized one, enough to shade the ground below it. It's named Senior Tree after a group of seniors who died in a drunk driving accident twenty years ago. In their memory, they planted it, but now, it's where all the "cool" seniors gather before and after school. I don't know the unwritten law that surrounds it. But underclassmen don't approach. Then, one day you walk onto campus and are suddenly good enough to crowd around Senior Tree. It's funny how something meant to be remembered can be so easily forgotten.
I send the signals to my feet to move. But they don't. Stupid feet. Stupid tree. Stupid heart. Everything is just stupid right now. Am I pouting? Absolutely. Because I know he has already won, but I didn’t want him to.
“Leora.” Gage walks up next to me, coming out from between the main office building and the gym, hands tucked into the pocket of his black hoodie.
I practically jump out of my skin. “God! You scared me!” If I didn't know it was him, I would be running for my life. He borders that line between creepy and dark and mysterious.
“Everett said you might not show.”
“Well, he wasn’t wrong. I did think about it.” I turn to face him now. He is so calm and quiet.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Curiosity…” I give him a face that says please believe my lie.
Based on his amused smirk, he doesn’t. “Sure. Come on.”
He nods his dark-haired head toward the stadium. I can hear the crowd from here, see the bright lights illuminating the field.
When we get to the entrance, he hands me a ticket. I raise my brow at him and take it from his hands. “He knew I’d come?”
He shrugs. “He was hoping.”
The crowd of people is much larger than it would be if we had a regular football team. But we don’t, thanks to Everett. His skills on the field are brilliant, or so I’ve heard. Whispers of him going pro float around town, but I know better. I know that he hates football now. The expectation of perfection has siphoned all the joy he once experienced from it.
Girls have jersey numbers painted on their faces. The stands are showered in the blue and yellow school colors. The crowd is loud as the cheerleaders chant their cute rhymes to rouse school spirit.
I’ve never been to a game before. I have to admit that it seems fun, exciting, and infectious. I find myself smiling and hoping we win. I guess the cheerleaders are cheerleading.
Gage leads us to our seats, and I turn to face the field. I see him out there, the stadium lights shining down on him. This is his stage. His muscles flex and contract as he tosses the ball up and it falls back down into his hands. Then he throws a perfect spiral to his teammate, wipes his hands on the towel at his waist, and then looksat the stands. I watch him repeat this process over and over, and he never misses his mark. My heart aches a little at how perfect he is and how…flawed I am. I begin to regret even coming. I knew better. I shouldn’t have come.
I go to stand, but Gage halts me. “Don’t leave. Just wait. If you don’t want to stay after the first quarter, I’ll take you home.”
I just stare at Gage; he probably thinks I’m insane…and maybe I am. I sit back down, and soon the game begins. We get the ball first, so Everett is out on the field, right in the center behind a line of the biggest guys I’ve ever seen. The ball snaps. He catches it. He looks to throw but runs right up the center, and two massive players in black and red tackle him.
A gasp leaves me, completely of its own volition. "Oh my God! That looks like it hurt."
His coach is yelling something on the sidelines, but then the next play is about to start. The same thing happens. He looks to throw but runs right up the middle. Tackled again.
The crowd boos.
“What is going on? Why isn’t he throwing the ball? He is going to get hurt!”
