The stadium lights were dim now, most of the students gone, but you stayed behind, sitting on the bleachers with your knees drawn up to your chest. The air smelled like damp grass and burnt-out adrenaline, a mix that used to thrill you during Friday night games. Now it just made your stomach twist.
You remembered the way his hand had felt in yours just a few days ago, rough and cold but careful—so careful—like he didn’t want to break you.
That night played in your mind over and over.
The two of you had snuck out after practice—his hoodie tugged low over his head, you in your cheer jacket zipped all the way up like it could shield you from consequences. The neon "FREEZIE'S" sign had glowed over your heads as you sat on the curb, laughing between bites of ice cream. Yours was a swirl of strawberry and vanilla. His? He didn’t even need to eat, but he still asked for mint chocolate chip because you told him it was your favorite.
“I think I like it,” Zane had said, even though he winced every time the cold hit his teeth. “But mostly ‘cause you like it.”
You’d laughed, bumping his shoulder with yours. “That’s such a cheesy line.”
“It’s true, though.”
And for a moment, it felt like nothing else mattered. Not the whispers. Not the rules. Not the cousin who watched your every move like a hawk.
But then a car had driven by. Slowed. Stopped.
You hadn’t seen who was in it, but Zane had. His entire body had stiffened like something in him froze worse than the ice cream. He didn’t say anything, not then, but you knew something had shifted.
The next morning, it all came crashing down.
You were standing by your locker, fixing your ponytail before homeroom, when your cousin appeared like a stormcloud in a letterman jacket.
“You got a minute?” he asked through gritted teeth.
You didn’t get to answer before he grabbed your arm and dragged you down the hallway, into the empty stairwell.
“You think I wouldn’t find out?” His voice was low, angry, trembling.
“About what?” you snapped, yanking your arm back. “Getting ice cream? Hanging out with someone I care about?”
“With that thing?” he spat, stepping closer. “You’re a cheerleader, for God’s sake. Do you even know what it looks like, being seen with him?”
You stared at him, heart pounding. “I don’t care what it looks like. He’s not like the others—he’s not—”
“I don’t care!” he snapped. “You keep hanging around him, and you’re done. Off the team. I’ll make sure of it.”
Your throat tightened. “You can’t—”
“I can, and I will.” His voice turned cold. “You don’t get to ruin what we built just because you’ve got a thing for corpses.”
He left you there, trembling in the silence of the stairwell, your pulse pounding in your ears.
After that, things changed.
Zane stopped answering your messages. He avoided you in the halls, in class, at lunch. And now, here you were, standing on the edge of the football field while he peeled off his helmet, still not looking at you.
“Why are you avoiding me?” you asked, your voice shaking.
He didn’t turn at first. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you said, stepping closer. “You won’t even look at me.”
Finally, he did—but not like before. His gaze didn’t soften.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“That again?” you snapped. “Is that your thing now—push me away and pretend like none of this happened?”
“I’m protecting you.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just doing exactly what he wants.”
“I don’t want you to lose everything you love.”
Your voice cracked. “I love you.”
That shut him up for a second. His jaw tightened like he was trying not to let it hit him too hard.
“I don’t care about the team,” you whispered. “Or what people say. Or my cousin. I care about how I feel when I’m with you. Isn’t that enough?”
Zane’s expression twisted, eyes full of regret—but he still took a step back.
“I want it to be,” he said. “But it’s not. Not in this world. And if I keep seeing you, I’ll make it worse.”
“So that’s it?” Your voice was barely audible.
He nodded slowly, like it physically hurt. “Yeah.”