Page 5 of Catching Feelings

I smile back weakly. Of course Ryan, beloved by all of Hamilton Lakes, wouldn’t understand wanting to lie low. And I’m too grateful to him and the Thompsons for letting me stay with them for senior year. It’s no small thing, no matter how many extra bedrooms your McMansion has. Uncle Mike insisted it would be a favor to have me move in and give the house some life—they just moved Ryan’s older brother, Zach, into the UW dorms for his first year of college.

Still, I’m a whole other mouth to feed, someone in their home who isn’t used to their routines and habits… and I’m not sure how to tell them I’m not feeling the most sociable this fall. Mom was initially conflicted about shipping me two hours from home, but Dad convinced her it was the only way for me to get a fresh start somewhere I could have a somewhat normal year.

I can’t imagine the alternative back in Brownsville. The Thompsons are pretty much my heroes. So I say, “Thanks. But what I really need is a job. I want to pitch in for groceries and stuff, and I need to save for next year.”

Ryan shakes his head. “You don’t need to worry about groceries—”

“You play hockey, right?” I raise an eyebrow. “You must have some idea how much a football player eats.”

He grins, glancing at me with a perceptiveness that makes me wonder if he’s not quite as clueless as he lets on. Maybe he knows I need to feel useful and be as busy as possible this year. “Point taken. Well, if you insist, the Lakeside Diner’s probably hiring.”

He points at a low-slung brick building with neon signage and gigantic glass windows. It sits on a corner on Main Street, and it feels like all the other shops are orbiting around it. The curb is packed with cars, so it must be popular. But…

I frown. “There’s no lake.”

“You would not be the first one to point that out.” Ryan waves at the cluster of people gathered on the sidewalk outside as we drive past. “My boy Dawson usually helps his parents out there, but he’s taking off to play for the Chicago Steel in a few days and they’re hiring to fill his spot. You should apply.”

I feel a tiny lift of hope. “Yeah, okay. Sounds great.” That kind of job sounds perfect, honestly—a way to be a part of this town just enough that people don’t regret inviting me to stay, but not so connected that things get complicated. Separated by a counter and an apron and a professional smile.

I turn to look over my shoulder at the diner just as a girl with a high blond ponytail wrapped in a ribbon steps out the door. She joins the crowd of students milling around outside, throwing her head back in laughter, and that happy group of them almost makes me miss everything I’m giving up this year.

3. SABRINA

As I rush across the nearly empty Hamilton Lakes High School parking lot, I’m grateful for the mid-August breeze. I’ve been taking advantage of the last week before classes start to complete my fall kickoff to-do list, but my ponytail is drooping and my glow is becoming a lot more swampy than dewy. This town might be small, but it’s big enough when you’re circling the square asking businesses to sponsor the homecoming dance so we can hire a real band, picking up T-shirt samples from the post office, and racing back home to get the stack of flyers you forgot to bring along in the first place.

For a minute, I let myself wish my dad were around to help me run the errands, or that Mom didn’t work twelve-hour shifts and could drop the papers off at school for me. She’s taken to leaving me sticky notes all over the house with the funniest motivational quotes she can find—if she can’t be there personally to gas me up, she’ll do it from afar. This morning’s? I learned a long time ago that worrying is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.

And she’s right. I haven’t talked to Dad since he dropped me at the Charleston airport, and Mom loves her job and shouldn’t be spending her time chasing around after me, and it’s good for me to be busy. So. Less worrying, more flyer-distributing.

Speaking of which. I check the time on my phone, and it confirms the sinking feeling I got when I saw the deserted lot. Football practice is definitely over, the players surely long gone. And I was hoping to drop off the flyers so they can help advertise for the pep rally, since we all know they’re the main attraction anyway. I really outdid myself: There are six different layouts, all profiling different players and the talents we might see them display at the pep rally, like Gabe’s juggling and Kai’s infamous body rolls.

And maybe part of this visit was to convince them to perform those talents at said pep rally.

I huff in frustration—this is what I get for falling behind schedule!

Whatever. I tighten my ponytail, cinching any threat of mess together with the ribbon, and march toward the locker room. The sun still sets late, but golden hour is coming on strong, gilding the bleachers and goalposts and making everything look extra romantic. The thought of those stands crammed with fans in just a few weeks fills me with a bubbling sense of possibility. When home started to feel a whole lot less homey last year, family dinners rippling with tense moments I could only contribute to by trying to defuse them, the ease I’d always taken for granted at Hamilton Lakes High became even more precious.

That’s why I do all this—for that feeling of being part of one massive organism, shouting with the same lungs, hearts beating with the same urgency. Everything out of sight decidedly out of mind.

My step turns into a skip. My class is going to have the best senior year Hamilton Lakes High has ever seen, starting with this pep rally. I’ll just leave the stack of flyers in the locker room and the team can grab them tomorrow. I still have access to their group email, right? If I shoot them a note later, it’ll all be fine. I always say: Ask forgiveness, not permission. The flyers are all printed up—what are they going to do, back out? No way.

By the time I make it to the locker room, tucked away at the far end of the field, my smile is firmly back in place even though there’s no one to see it.

I knock sharply several times just to be safe, even though the place seems deserted. “Hello?” I call. “All hot, naked football players, please speak now or forever hold your peace!”

I pause to listen. No response, of course. I can’t help giggling at my own joke as I step over the threshold, holding my breath against the scent of sweaty socks and Axe body spray. Hamilton Lakes keeps the locker room tidy, thank goodness—nary a jockstrap to be seen—but there’s nothing you can do to get the stench of teenage boy out of the place.

I’m just about to set the stack of flyers down on the table by the door—even distracted prepractice football players are bound to see them there, right?—when someone rounds the bank of lockers, nearly bumping right into me.

And that someone is in a towel.

My hands fly up, papers scattering across the floor, but I don’t even care. There’s a bare, muscled chest inches from my face. Close enough I can see the tiny sprinkling of hair dusting his pecs, the droplets of water he forgot to towel off glimmering against the golden glow of his summer-tan skin. One more step and my face would be squashed against it.

“What the hell?” I squawk.

I take in his wide brown eyes, the hastily towel-dried, floppy brown hair, the strong ridge of his brow and bridge of his nose. A droplet of water traces down the column of his throat.

And that’s when I see the headphones he’s wearing.