Page 109 of Scoring Lessons

“Shit,” Aly murmured. “I don’t understand what this list thing is, but”—she studied me for a beat—“you like her.”

Parker’s hazel eyes settled on me expectantly.

“I’ve been going through some shit,” I confessed, avoiding my friend’s gaze. “She’s been there for me, too. We’ve leaned on each other, and now it’s like…” I gripped my hair in frustration. “I-I don’t know anymore.”

Words weren’t enough to explain who Olivia was in my life.

She was this light amidst the fog. She was the melody of my favorite song. She was the first person I wanted to call when something went wrong, and the reason I was starting to think that maybe things could go right. She made quiet feel like enough. She made me feel like I could fight harder for me—for us.

I looked up and found Aly’s face with an expression I didn’t have a name for, something between sympathy and certainty, like she’d already figured out the ending to a story I was still stuck in the middle of.

“Not like,” she said, more certain this time. “You’re falling in love with her.”

“Yeah.” The word felt raw against my throat.

I was irrevocably, helplessly, inconveniently falling in love with Olivia Anderson.

TWENTY-EIGHT

OLIVIA

I’M ALWAYS FLIRTING WITH YOU.

A laugh burst out of me when Wesley walked out of his room.

“Oh, my God. What are you wearing?!”

Wesley spread his arms wide like he was presenting himself at a runway show. He had on a pair of burnt-orange flared pants that sat low on his hips and a white crop top with Strikers’ logo on it that did absolutely nothing to hide the hard muscles of his abdomen. A pair of white roller skates were slung over his shoulder, and a paisley print scarf was wrapped around his neck.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m rocking this outfit.” He made a show of turning around, allowing me to take in his whole outfit.

“I—” My eyes landed on his abdomen. Damn, he was rocking the hell out of that cropped shirt. “The crop top.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing,” I managed to say. “Nothing at all.” He looked unfairly handsome even though he was dressed in clothes a few decades too old, but I wasn’t about to stroke his ego.

When Daisy trotted out beside him, I lost it completely.

She had on a tiny rust-colored turtleneck sweater with a little flared collar and a tied a miniature silk scarf that was the same texture and color as Wesley’s. Her tail was going at full speed, completely unbothered, like she knew she looked incredible and was ready to go partying.

“She picked it out herself,” Wesley said. “She wanted to twin with me.”

I snorted a laugh. “She did not.”

“Spiritually, she did.” He crouched down, and Daisy immediately put both paws on his knee. “Didn’t you, Daisy pie?”

Daisy licked his face with enormous enthusiasm, and the sight did dangerous things to my little heart.

He looked at me then at my outfit, something warming in his expression before he reined it back in. “Wow, you look⁠—”

“Ridiculous, I know,” I sighed. “But Kennedy was adamant that I had to dress up.”

We were going to a Strikers’ charity event, which Kennedy was in charge of. It was ’70s-themed at a roller-skating rink (because apparently, ice skating wasn’t enough). The cause was awesome, though. We were raising money for Willow House—a nonprofit organization for women and children who’d escaped dangerous situations, like my mom had.

His strides were lazy until he was right in front of me. Too impossibly close for me to look away. “You look fucking stunning, Olivia.”

I scrunched my nose as I stared at my outfit. The jumpsuit was loud—purple and orange and pink flowers climbing a diamond grid, button-down front, shorts cut high on my thighs. I’d paired it with a pair of purple, heart-shaped sunglasses and some fuzzy, orange socks.