1. Nikki Thomas, Senior Year

1

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My eyes connectwith Alex's over the roof of his car just as my mom rushes from the garage with one more bag of nearly-expired baked goods she picked up from the clearance bakery. At first, our friends at Tiff didn't believe us when we told them the clearance bakery was a thing. But now that we've consistently come back from Odell, our hometown about three hours north of Tiff, with sacks upon sacks of baked goods, they've all bought into the truth. The problem is they encourage our moms' obsession. Mostly because we return to campus with treats every time we go home.

"I knew I had one more. Here, Nik. You can put it on the floor." My mom hooks the bag on my finger then plops a quick kiss on my cheek before running back into the garage and shutting it behind her.

"Remind me again why we came home for a three-day weekend?" I peek inside the bag as I slump into the passenger seat.

"Because if we didn't come here, they would come to us," Alex reminds me, his eyes crinkling in that sweet way that accompanies his smile.

"Ah," I respond, pulling out the box of last-chance powdered donuts and cracking the lid. "Well, we better eat these on the road. They expire tomorrow."

I pluck one out and take a bite. Alex nudges the box lid down, scanning it with his eyes, and laughs.

"They expired two days ago," he says, and I cough out a fog of powdered sugar. Flipping the box lid back open, he nods for me to dispose of the remains. I power through chewing what I already ate, my mind working through the psychology of whether I realized the donut was stale before or after I knew the date.

We both buckle up for the drive. I turn my attention to syncing my phone with his car so I can continue testing my mixes on him—and avoiding the conversation I promised my friend Omar I would have. I made a deal for the last piece of cheesecake at our resident hall staff meeting last week that during this trip with Alex, I would finally let him know how I feel. Seeing as I have a couple hours and a few hundred miles left in the trip, I think I might owe Omar cheesecake.

I start the next song in the queue and am about to explain my thought process on the songs I chose when Alex halts me with a sharp laugh. My brow draws in tight.

"What?" My hand immediately goes to the corners of my mouth, feeling the sugar.

"Hold on. You're making it worse." Alex twists in his seat and cradles my face in his palms, his thumbs smudging away what probably looks like cocaine or paste by this point from both sides of my mouth. I'd be embarrassed if I weren't busy relishing this moment.

I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat.

"Better?" I ask, my own breath fighting against self-control. How is it I feel as if I just finished sprinting a forty? I should be better at suppressing my physical reaction to him by now. Years of practice and all that. But the fact that finally confessing how I feel to him has been balancing on the edge of my lips all weekend is making it hard.

"Yeah. I got you," Alex says, snapping me from my haze. He winks as his hands drop from my face. They're back on the wheel a half second later and we're on our way back toward campus.

I settle into my seat and tie the last-minute bakery bag into a knot at the top and drop it at my feet. I'm sure one of Alex's teammates won't care that the donuts are stale. Or that I ate half of one.

Forcing myself to refocus, I restart the music. I'm applying for an apprenticeship with a sound studio after graduation, mostly to build my portfolio before attempting to branch out on my own. I want to own my own studio, work with female indie artists, maybe run the sound for a tour one day. I've spent three and a half years in Tiff's broadcasting school making connections and nerding out with sound engineers, but the experience has all been with sports. It's time for me to turn my passion for music into a career. My portfolio needs to show more than my work for play-by-play and commercial breaks. That's why I made these mixes as a supplement. I was hoping Alex could help me narrow down the best two or three to include.

The beat thumps through the sub in Alex's trunk, rattling some of the boxes our moms sent with us back to campus. I lean on the console to mess with the bass levels, though I'd prefer to mess with the boxes instead. I find a happy medium and am about to launch back into my thought process for slowing down a classic disco refrain when Alex speaks.

"I know we need to get back, but mind stopping at the high school?"

I snap my mouth shut and consider the clues in his words. Alex Sr. is there, at the field, working out the high school team for pre-season. I noticed Alex didn't visit practice all weekend. In fact, he hasn't stopped by the school to see the team or help out his dad since he left for summer ball before our senior year at Tiff. And he spent more time at our house than his over winter break last month. Same with this weekend trip. His relationship with his dad has always been hard to pin down. I figure when your dad is both your idol and your coach, things get strained. I was there for the tough rides home after bad games. And his dad was always extra hard on him, partly to avoid showing favoritism. But also, I think there was a part of him that rose or fell depending on his son's successes and failures. Alex shuts me down when I bring up this new level of tension, insisting everything is the same. He forgets that I'm one of the few people in his life who recognizes when it"s not.

"Of course," I answer, my gaze lingering on his. He seems hesitant, as if he wants to change his mind. Eventually, though, he nods and moves his focus to the rearview mirror before shifting into reverse. I settle into my seat and buckle up.

We're at the school in minutes. Alex pulls along the fence, parking under the tree he and I used to climb up in when we were young to watch his dad coach. I unclasp my safety belt and put my hand on the door.

"I'll only be a minute," he says, leaving the engine running.

"Oh, okay," I say, quietly clicking my seat belt back in place.

I pause my mix, figuring I'll start it over when we hit the road for real. Plus, I'm hoping I'll be able to hear something if I crack the window. Alex's dad says something to one of his players then walks around the dugout to meet his son. They're too far for me to eavesdrop, but I do my best to read the body language. There isn't a handshake. The two men haven't hugged in years. Their stances are similar, however, both nodding with their arms folded over their chests, eyes peering down at the ground between them.

As promised, Alex is heading back to the car in less than a minute. Whatever their conversation, it was brief.

"Thanks," Alex says, slipping back into the driver's seat as if he merely stepped out to wash the windshield. I stare at him as he snaps his belt back in place and shifts into drive. He relents and meets my gaze after a few long seconds.

"It's fine. We're . . . fine." Nothing about his tone sounds fine.

He flexes his hands on the steering wheel. I shift my gaze out my window and chew the inside of my mouth to keep from needling him. The quiet feels thick, though, and I don't want to simply replace it with my music.

"Good thing he's not your coach anymore, I guess." It's a bit passive aggressive, but it's also not a direct question, and Alex relents with a sighed laugh.

"I asked him not to come to my games is all. For a while, at least."

My eyebrows have always betrayed me, and I feel them touch my hairline when Alex looks at me.

"For a while, I said," he repeats, a little snap to his retort.

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," I throw back. He doesn't have to tell me what's going on between him and his dad if he doesn't want to, but he does have to redirect his bad mood. I'm definitely not revealing my years-long crush to him now. Hell, if he keeps this attitude up I may just quash my feelings for good.

Probably not.

I let the silence grow, waiting him out. I know him well enough to realize he hopes I'll just drop this subject and get lost in sharing my work with him. Normally, I would. But this feels serious. He finally breaks, rolling his head and grabbing the back of his neck as he sighs.

"I haven't been hitting great in scrimmages. And there's this freshman?—"

"Edwin," I fill in, knowing who he means. Because I've watched the scrimmages. And he's right, he hasn't been hitting great. And Edwin has. But Alex has three years of evidence for what he can do in the batter's box. He shouldn't let a few rough weeks of fall ball eat away at him. Which is easy for me to say, I suppose.

"Yeah. Anyway, he's probably going to get to DH a lot to start, and if I can't turn it around . . ."

I swivel my head in time to see him swallow hard. He glances my way briefly but returns his focus to the road.

"I don't know. It's just got me thinking about distractions is all. And he's one hell of a distraction." Our eyes meet for a second and he flashes me a quick, guilty half-smirk.

"I understand."

His mouth is pulled into a tight line. He's grinding his teeth. I recognize the ripples along his jawline. I place my hand on his forearm and his gaze shifts to me again. He lets go of the wheel and links our hands, squeezing my palm in his. It's warm and safe. Like always.

"Thanks," he says, letting go of his hold and returning his hands to the ever-so-safe ten and two.

I leave the obvious things off to the side, like the fact his dad really is proud of his son. Whatever this strife is, I doubt it has to do with him wanting his father's approval or attention. If anything, he's always wanted a little less of it.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to suck the air out of the car. You were about to explain why I should like this hot take on your dad's record collection." He turns the music up as he cracks a joke, his way of changing subjects.

"Right." I exhale. "So, first off, this phrase is from a Diana Ross song. And it's my record, thank you very much." Alex relaxes into a soft laugh. I continue, my mind splitting into two different paths. There's my present, here in the car, continuing to talk about my passion with my friend, and then there's the other me, drifting down the rabbit hole of worries for my friend, and owning that I won't be admitting my feelings to him anytime soon. Also, I need to stop for cheesecake.

* * *

I'm notsure what clued Omar in first, the fact that he opened the door to my scrunched-up, guilty expression or the box of frozen cheesecake I clutched in my hands. Perhaps it was both pieces of evidence together. Regardless, here we are on the floor of his resident assistant room with a couple of forks, frosty raspberry-topped cheesecake, and box wine that we are drinking right from the spout.

"I hear what you're saying, Nikki. I wouldn't have wanted to talk about my crush on that drive home either," Omar says, sliding his fork into a piece of the cake.

"Good, you understand then. Thank you," I say, piercing my next bite.

"Ah, but . . ." He cups his mouth to chew and talk at the same time.

I don't bother taking my bite. Here comes my lecture.

"You did have the entire weekend. And, as you mentioned, Alex was at your house basically the entire time." He quirks a brow as he swallows his bite and drops his hand from masking his righteous grin.

"No more cheesecake for you," I say, slapping the lid back on our treat and getting to my feet. I'm a little tipsy from the cheap wine and manage to stumble back a step but quickly right myself.

Omar gets up and sucks the last remnants of cake from his fork before tossing it in the trash.

"That's fine. I'm watching my figure," he jokes, patting his extremely taut stomach. I give him side eyes and murmur, "Asshole" under my breath. He chuckles.

Omar and I have been friends for two years, since we both applied to be RAs and went through the training together, which isn't much more than CPR, first aid, and a lecture on reminding students not to have open flames in their rooms. He's a nursing major, and the most eligible gay man on Tiff's campus. He is also terrified of rejection since a bad breakup freshman year, so while he has plenty of advice for me on the dating front, he's no better at taking leaps of faith than I am.

"What if I make you a deal?" I say, sliding the cheesecake box into the only open space in Omar's mini fridge.

"I like deals. I mean, this last one got me free cheesecake, so . . ." He opens his palms and smirks. I grimace.

"Okay, Mr. Know-It-All." I might be a little more than just tipsy. But that's fine. My point will still be made.

"If I spill my guts to Alex, you have to ask out that lacrosse player I know you have been pining after at the gym." I cross my arms over my chest and jut out my hip, proud of my new little all-in gamble.

Omar chews at the inside of his cheek, the nervous side of him making his eyes flinch a tick. "Pining after?"

"Oh, whatever! I was trying to be classy about it, but fine—lusting after. And don't you deny it!" I point a finger at him and I swear his cheeks are pink.

"Oh, I'm not denying it. I just think I'm more up for this than you are," he challenges back, running a hand through his curly black hair. His gaze settles on mine, waiting for my next move.

I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans to check the time, chewing on my tongue while I consider the opportunity. It's probably halftime for the playoff basketball game going on in the gym right now, and most of our school's athletes are there supporting. Alex is, and I'd bet Brian, the hot lacrosse guy, is too. My skin buzzes with nervous energy, but if I don't do this now, I will only sober up and put it off for, well, probably forever.

"Fine. Let's see who's up for it. We're going to the game. Get your shoes on." I kick his sneakers toward him while I sink my phone back into my pocket.

Omar drops his chin to his chest, staring at his shoes for a few seconds before shaking with a silent laugh.

"Alright, you're on, Nik. I hope you're ready." He slips one foot into a shoe, then bends down to pull the heel back for the second.

I swallow hard when he's not looking, the weight of my gauntlet hitting me. My skin is hot, which is partly from the wine, but also from panic. Shit! I'm doing this.

While Omar brushes his teeth, I grab a water bottle from his fridge and swish to rinse out my mouth, then crowd in next to him to spit it out in his sink. I tug the tie from my hair and run my fingers through it a few times to work out the kink. I look like I've been drinking box wine in a dorm room for the last hour so I splash water on my face and pat my skin dry with a towel, then pile my hair back up on top of my head in a cute messy bun. At least, I think it's cute. I'm not sure my opinion can be trusted right now.

"Let's do this," Omar says, holding the door open for me.

"Let's," I agree, giving him a hard brush against the chest as I pass him and head into the hall. It's bravado, but faking it has gotten me through tough spots before. Most of my successful job interviews were for things I wasn't qualified for but went in bold. I had zero soundboard experience when I applied for the Tiff broadcast truck. Now I run that thing.

Our dorm attaches to the gym through a tunnel, a convenient feature when it's snowing outside, but less so when one is hoping for this trip to take more time. We're standing in front of the crowded stands in minutes, and my pits are dripping with sweat. Omar, however, seems cool as can be.

"You find your guy?" I say, stepping up on my toes and shouting toward his ear. It's roaring in here, the game tight and our girls having just scored on a fast break. Omar scans the seats for a few seconds while I do the same.

"Got him," he finally says, nodding up toward the right hand corner where a few of the lacrosse players have gathered. "You?"

I spot Alex almost instantly. I've always been able to find him in crowds. I pretend, though, panning over the stands until acting as though I just found him. "Ah, yes. In the very middle. Of course."

Of course. Right in the middle of everyone.

My legs are trembling, and the thought that I might biff it on my way up the stands doesn't feel so far-fetched.

"Alright. It's on," Omar says, holding out his palm for me to shake. I grasp his hand and we both nod. He turns and heads up the stands to his target. I guess that makes this an official deal. Or maybe not. Maybe I walk up there and sit next to Alex and relish in the fact I did my friend Omar a solid and got him to take a shot at romance.

It's too loud in here for me to call an audible, and I stand out by hovering in front of the people seated courtside. With a massive deep breath, I ball my fists in my front pockets and focus on putting one foot in front of the other until I'm a few steps from Alex's row. We make eye contact and he nods for me to shimmy over the long legs of his teammates to take the spot next to him.

"Excuse me," I say, not realizing that the first set of legs I need to navigate past belong to my ex, Brayden.

"Not even going to stop to say hi?" He was always overly charming to the point of cheesy. It's why I wasn't so upset when we broke up. Not that I should have been dating him to begin with. It was our freshman year, and I was pissed off that Alex was spending so much time hooking up with Alicia that I tried to redirect my affection to Brayden. It was a major fail. And not only because I wasn't really invested in our relationship. Brayden's a pitcher, which comes with a certain level of narcissism. While he was dating me, he was also very much dating himself. In fact, I think he prefers himself over just about anyone. Even now, I'm guessing.

"Oh, sorry. I wasn't really paying attention. But yes, hi, Brayden. Good to see you," I say, accepting his gesture for a hug. His long arms wrap around me and I feel smothered. My gaze strains to make eye contact with Alex, and our eyes meet.

"One second," I mouth. Alex gives me a quick nod, his eyes squinting a little. Does he not like that I'm hugging Brayden? Maybe this confession mission will work out after all.

"I should . . ." I start, nodding down the line toward Alex.

"Oh, yeah. Hey, let's catch up sometime," he says, letting his hands drop back into his pockets. I nod and smile while my inner voice explains that we just did catch up and that's enough.

I work my way through the tight space over a few more sets of knees and thighs until I'm able to flop down into the space next to Alex.

"You get Omar his cheesecake?" my friend asks.

I breathe out a short laugh and nod with tight lips. He thinks I lost a bet over some residence hall survey.

"I may have had a little myself." I shrug with one shoulder, giving him a guilty smirk.

Alex leans in and lowers his brow, and my chest and neck fire up.

"You have a little something else with your dessert?" His brow ticks up on one side.

Shit. I should have snagged some mouthwash from Omar.

I hold up my fingers in a pinch.

"A little wine, maybe." A lot of wine, probably.

Alex chuckles, his body vibrating with his laughter against my side. At least being this close helps me avoid direct eye contact and hopefully blocks his view of my flushed skin. I might be buzzed, but my cheeks are pink for a whole different reason.

"Hey, can we talk?—"

"I wanted to tell you something I've been feeling?—"

We talk over one another, something we've done for years, but the timing feels less amusing now. We both laugh nervously and insist the other person goes first, but of course, there's no way I'm dropping my truth bomb before he says what he needs to say.

"Don't make me pinch your nipple," I threaten, getting a snort-laugh from his teammate Cole on the other side of him. "Hush your mouth or I pinch yours too!" I press my thumb and index finger together and twist to emphasize my threat, but Cole simply waggles his brows and asks if I promise.

I roll my eyes and block my view of Cole behind Alex's bicep.

"I'll go first just to avoid having to watch Cole get off on letting you pinch his nipples," Alex chuckles. I shove his side, my movement a little bit playful and a little irritable at the same time. This whole thing is going badly.

Alex's body lifts with an inhale and I find myself joining him. When he exhales, however, I hold my breath in, waiting.

"About today, at the school. The whole thing with my dad." He exaggerates his last two words in that sarcastic tone he uses when he's uncomfortable. I slowly release my breath through my nose. This is an important share for him. I wish it wasn't happening here, but I've prodded him over it for too long to ask him to wait.

"Yeah," I hum, leaning into him so he can feel my weight, my comfort. It's so crowded in here it almost feels intimate. No one would be able to hear us without physically leaning in. And I'm definitely buzzed enough to throat punch one of his teammates.

"Last summer, before I left for the summer league, I found out some pretty shitty stuff . . . about my dad." His chin tucks to his shoulder and his eyes drop to meet mine. My stomach sinks with worry and I gulp the air. His dad is sick.

"Oh, Alex." I instinctively wrap my hand around his forearm.

"No, not . . . not what you're thinking," he stops me. His hand covers mine, and I dissolve into my surroundings, my ears full, my heart pounding. I'm a mixed bag of emotions, but above it all I have to force myself to be present for my friend.

"My parents are separated. My mom . . . she doesn't want anyone to know, though. Because you know how our town is."

I suck in a sharp breath and nod. Odell is big enough to have the kind of people who love to spread rumors. And his mom, Marie, is a teacher at the high school where his dad is a coach. And they exist together, day in, day out. Still. Oh, man.

I nod.

"Does my mom know?" She can't possibly. She's terrible at keeping secrets from me, and Alex shakes his head, confirming my hunch.

"I'm impressed she's been able to keep it from her," Alex laughs out in a short breath. I flash a short-lived smile in agreement. This might be the first time one of them has kept a secret from the other, at least as far as I know.

"Is there a reason Marie hasn't told my mom?" I can't help but dig. There has to be more to it. A reason why Alex hasn't told me until now.

Alex's gaze flickers up, and he laughs. He pulls his hat from his head and runs his fingers through his hair before nestling it back in place. He gives a quick glance to his right then meets my stare.

"Remember Miss Arendale? The sub?" His eyes study me while I mentally jog through the few times I had her as a substitute in high school PE. She was nice. Young. Very attractive. She graduated from Odell High when we were freshmen, so it was a big deal to have a former student there to teach us. Especially since she was so young.

Oh.

"No!" I growl, my mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"Uh, very much yes. And guess who got a full-time gig at the school? And who is still dating, if that's what you can call it?"

My mouth somehow finds a way to fall open wider.

"Yeah, it's as bad as you imagine." His mouth snaps shut and his faint, tight smile is the indignant kind.

"And nobody knows?" A love triangle like this is a pretty big piece of gossip for Odell High. I doubt there isn't someone who's picked up on things, especially if they're still . . . dating. And when did it start? Was she . . . his student?

Oh, my God!

"I'm sure some of the students know," Alex says. "I wasn't exactly nice to my dad when we chatted on the field. Some of the guys heard us." He shrugs, almost as though he doesn't care that he broke the news to the public. Except, I know he cares about his mom's feelings in all of this.

"I see how he's a distraction," I say, leaning into him again to show my support.

"Yeah," he sighs. "I've been processing it all. I guess I'm still processing. I'm sorry I was so shitty toward you. And that I didn't tell you sooner. I've been trying to keep it separate from the good things in my life."

I'm one of his good things.

"I get it," I say, and honestly . . . I do. It's half, if not most, of the reason I haven't broached the subject of my feelings. There's no going back when I put my truth out there.

"I mean, I guess there's a lesson in this too, right?" Alex continues.

"What lesson is that?" I ask.

"Relationships are all bullshit. I mean, he supposedly gave up baseball for the family life, but then he gets a little attention from someone only a few years older than me, and all of a sudden his promises mean shit. Whatever. I'm too focused on baseball for all that anyhow. Who knows what kind of a cheater he would have been if he kept up with the game."

My body feels like it's sinking into the seat, as if I'm lowering through the metal and hard plastic onto the hardwood far below. I'm devastated for my friend, and even more so for his mom. And I worry how things might play out back home, how my parents will react, and a part of me also wonders about their relationship now. My dad's a pilot, and he's gone half of the time. Does he have a Miss Arendale in some hub somewhere?

Beyond all of these feelings fighting for attention in my brain, though, my phone has now buzzed in my back pocket twice, and I know without checking it that there are messages from Omar. I am aborting my side of the bargain, and I don't care how many cheesecakes it's going to cost me. I hope things worked out for Omar, but as much as I suck at timing, I know enough to recognize that now would be a disaster of a moment to drop a big old I'm in love with you on my best friend.

It"s not as if I can simply leave, though. Not after all that. So instead, I'm going to have to sit here in stunned silence, my eyes darting around the court below as I pretend to be invested in this game. Our women's team is running away with it, up by twelve at the start of the fourth quarter. I would give anything for the action to pick up enough to fill these final few minutes. A close game might help Alex forget that I had something to say, too.

We sink another three.

Their superstar just fouled out.

Shit.

"Anyway," Alex says through an exhale, leaning back in a stretch. I feel his eyes on me. I'm not going to get out of this. I wonder if he saw me swallow that lump of fear just now.

"What was your thing? That's the second time I've dominated our conversation with my shit. Let's talk about you. What's going on with my best friend, huh?"

I scrunch my face then twist my mouth as I glance at Alex.

"Huh, you know what? I don't even remember what I was going to say," I lie. Poorly. And I can tell by the way he's studying me for my tells that he doesn't fully buy it. I have very obvious tells. The biggest one is rapid blinking. But I know about that one, so to combat it. I try not to blink at all. Which has become another tell, because zombie face is apparently unnerving.

"Oh, come on. I didn't mean to bring you down too. You seemed kind of hyped about whatever it is. What's up? You said you wanted to talk about something you've been feeling . . ."

My stomach drops just as Alex's eyes glance beyond my shoulder. His mouth pulls into a slight smirk, which throws me, but also gives me this weird sense of hope. He's smiling. I follow his gaze to the end of the row, where Brayden is leaning forward and looking back at us.

"Are you— Is Brayden— Youwant to get back with Brayden?" Alex leans back, his massive grin slapping me in the face when I jet around to face him with wide eyes.

No, no, no, no!

My mouth opens, but it's too late. Alex is already talking.

"You know he's been talking to that girl, Melissa. The one interning with the training staff," he says, the smirk still very present on his face. I hate that smirk. It's so off base. And yet, how do I tell him he's heading down the wrong path without putting him on the right one? The right one, which, of course, leads right to him—the man who just pledged himself to baseball and said relationships are for losers.

"I thought you didn't like him," he questions, brow drawn in as a surprised laugh floats past his lips.

"I don't!" And I mean it, but my words end up sounding like the rebuttal of a third grader pouting about getting out in dodgeball.

"Nik," Alex says, dropping his chin and lowering his eyes on me. His puckered smirk makes me want to cry. "Come on. It's me."

And that's the thing. Yeah, it's him. It's always him. And I was supposed to tell him that. I still could. Right now. I will. I'm going to do it.

"You know, Brayden has always been kind of jealous about you and me," he says, drawing an invisible line between our arms.

Now is the time. Do it, Nikki! Say what you feel!

"He . . . umm, he has?" I swallow hard, my mouth so dry I half expect to pull a cactus needle out from between my teeth. Why am I so broken?

"Oooooh, yeah. I mean, I think he just envied how close we are. Which, I get that. You and I are pretty unique."

"We are?" Of course we are!

"I think so." Alex shrugs. He reaches forward and takes my hand in his, weaving our fingers together, and my arm numbs from the zaps that travel up my veins.

"Just because my life's a mess doesn't mean you shouldn't be happy. If you still have a thing for our ace, I'm down to help get his attention back where it belongs." Alex taps the tip of my nose with index his finger, and I go cross-eyed watching it.

"Alex, I'm not sure?—"

"Shh, hold on."

I hold my tongue, feeling everything and nothing at the same time. His hand is so warm, and I'm sure my palm is sweating. My pulse is beating in my fingertips. I know that much for sure.

"Yeah, he sees us," he says, turning his attention back to the game but keeping his hold on me. "Trust me, Nikki. You might not be sure, but I am." And before I can protest and put an end to this entire misunderstanding, Alex brings our tethered hands to his mouth and presses his lips to my knuckles. The whole thing lasts a second, but my eyes take it in through slow motion lenses.

"Yeah, Brayden might punch me eventually. But it will be worth it if he comes groveling back. Make him beg, though, okay? Promise me that. Make him beg for you. I think this little project is exactly what I need—a low-level distraction. I'll play fake boyfriend." Alex's eyes never fully reach mine, but his smirk shows what joy he's getting out of making his teammate jealous. Playing matchmaker. For me. With someone else.

Maybe pretend is close enough to real for me, too.

*********