Because his hands reached out for my hips to steady me, that smile on his lips wider now, his eyes bright with mischief.
“My bad,” he said, his voice low, and his eyes raked down me, milking that stolen moment for all it was worth. His hands lingered on my skin for as long as they could before it would be inappropriate, and then reluctantly, he let me go.
And I felt a whole different kind of energy buzzing through me now.
We filed into position along the sideline, our formation tightening as we waited for the cue to take the center of the field. The stadium was nearly full now, a sea of colors and movement, the kind of electric, pre-kickoff anticipation that fueled our players and dancers alike. Music pulsed low throughthe speakers, not yet our track, just enough to keep the energy simmering as the final minutes ticked down.
My chest rose and fell a little faster than usual, a combination of my usual pre-game nerves andhim.
I could still feel the imprint of Braden’s hands on my hips, the heat of his palms like it had soaked straight through my uniform and into my bloodstream. Every part of me felt more awake because of it, more aware, more alive, like I’d been dialed up just a notch too high in the best possible way.
And I knew he was still watching.
I didn’t look for him again, but I could feel it all the same.
“Places,” our captain called, and we started our jog toward the center of the field, pompoms catching the light with every step.
The noise grew louder the farther we went, the crowd swelling around us, wrapping us in it. I lifted my chin, letting it all hit me at once, the sun beaming overhead, the sound of the crowd, the energy—
And then something cut through it.
A voice.
Twovoices.
Voices I would know anywhere.
I tried to follow them through the rest of the noise, searching the crowd as I filed into formation. Their screams grew louder, like they realized I was looking for them. And that’s when my gaze snagged on a pair of neon-green jerseys in the front row.
My parents.
The world tilted beneath my feet, causing me to stumble left a bit before I straightened.
They were here.
Why thefuckwere they here?
They were right behind the home bench, pressed up against the railing, waving like they were trying to flag down a plane.Mom was who I saw first, her honey brown, silky hair framing her smooth, tan skin like a halo. Her face lit up when she realized I’d spotted them, and she jumped even higher with the glitter-covered sign in her hand.
We love you, Emily!
Dad was there beside her, a little more subdued, but beaming just the same. The neon of the jersey blazed against his deep brown skin, his hair cut into a tight fade, smile so wide I could see it even from the center of the field.
My stomach dropped and flipped all at once.
They were smiling so big, so proud, so completely thrilled to be here that it hit me like a pillowcase full of hardcover books, like something crashing straight into my chest. For a split second, warmth flooded through me, sharp and overwhelming, because they had come all this way, because they had surprised me, because they were here.
For me.
And then, just as quickly, a tornado of anxiety swept in and suffocated any joy I had.
It wasn’t like they were here to witness me winning a debate or presenting a thesis. I was dancing on a field at a football game — and suddenly, that pride and excitement I’d felt just moments before was eviscerated.
And I was ashamed.
Every conversation, every look, every moment where I had felt like I was just slightly off from the version of success they’d imagined for me came rushing back all at once. It tangled with the present so fast I couldn’t separate it, couldn’t tell what was real and what was memory and what was just the story I told myself about them.
My breath caught, lodged so fiercely in my chest I couldn’t make it budge.
