The noise changes slightly when you close your eyes… cheers, whistles, the chants of the stadium crowd.
And suddenly, I’m not here anymore. I’m back there. On that field.
Lake Stevens High School.
The day that started it all.
The day I first saw her.
Maddison Morgan.
The marching band parted, and with it, my world tilted.
Across the field, a visiting cheer squad fanned out like a sweep of color against the visitor bleachers. She stood at the center. Auburn ponytail catching the stadium lights, megawatt smile aimed somewhere past me, as if she’d been dropped here by mistake and was about to float away again. My chest hitched.
“Yo, Reign!” Bishop barked, slapping my helmet. “Quit gawking. Coach wants the coin toss.”
I nodded, but my gaze refused to break. Move, Reign! I scanned the turf for… anything. A gesture, a gift, a reason to stand in front of her, stupid but hormonal high schoolers aren’t known for rocket science. A cluster of green vines crawled along the chain link near the tunnel exit. Close enough. I yanked off a handful and ran.
Twenty cheerleaders stopped mid-routine when I stepped into their formation. Helmets turned, whistles shrilled from the refs. Worth it.
I held out the vines. “For you.”
She arched one perfect brow. “You know that’s poison ivy, right?”
Laughter rippled through the squad. My face flamed beneath the face mask. She flashed a quick, almost sympathetic smile, then pivoted back to her squad.
I chucked the cursed greenery, jogged to the huddle, I wasn’t sure if it was in my head, but I felt the itch bloom beneath my gloves. Great. Coach blew the opening whistle; I could still flex my fingers.
Every snap felt a little worse. Poison ivy tingling had already started under the tape at record pace, each grip on the laces a new stab of fire. Somehow, instinct carried me. Bishop’s post route, the screen to Morris, a last-second QB sneak, each play stitched us downfield. Finally, it was the final drive: ten seconds, tied score. I faked left, rolled right, and, despite the irritation, rifled a forty-yard dart Bishop plucked from the corner of the end zone.
The crowd erupted. My hands throbbed, but we’d won.
When the horn faded, I jogged, grimacing, toward the cheer line. She was still there, chatting with friends, ponytail bobbing. I cleared my throat.
“Well… that was rough,” she teased, eyes flicking to my red knuckles.
“Rough? I still won, didn’t I?”
She smiles at me. “Did you, though?”
The stadium noise swells again. The lights burn a little too bright.
“Did you, though?”
Her voice echoes strangely this time, like it didn’t come from her mouth—like it came from everywhere.
“Did you, though?”
She’s still smiling, but something about it is wrong now. Too still. Too frozen.
“Did you, though?”
The words start to stutter. Loop. Skip.
Did you though?
Didyou though?
