Braelie’s wearing my number and I think I just blacked out for three full minutes because we’re lowkeye official now.

On my soul I missed an entire play call because she walked into the stands with my jersey hanging off her like it was made for her and not for, y’know, full-contact combat. My jersey. My name.

I’m gonna lose this game if I keep looking.

“Yo.” Conner elbows me. “They’re about to kick off.”

“Right. Yeah. I’m locked in,” I lie. I am so not locked in. I am unlocked. I am unhinged. I am a fuckin’ open window on the fourth floor.

Coach yells something at me—probably my cue to move—and I nod like I heard him, then glance back at the bleachers one more time. To find her looking with nothing but unabashed fear at two blondes. One my mom. The other my sister.

Fuck.

I don’t notice it at first, ‘cause I’m jogging off field after a killer first down and the crowd’s going nuts. Lucas chest bumps me. Coach slaps my helmet. I’m grinning like a dumbass, looking for her in the crowd because that’s just what I do now.

Braelie’s wasn’t looking back.

She was looking at my fucking sister.

Brielle Fox. Queen Bitch of Line Creek. And she’s laughing.

I can’t hear the words exactly, not from the field. But I know that laugh. It’s the one she used on her friend Madi when she wore cheap lashes to homecoming.

And she’s aiming it at my girl.

I jog up to the sideline, breathing hard, adrenaline high, cleats biting into the turf. “Coach, sub me for a sec.”

“You serious? You just gained forty—”

“I’ll be back. Give it a minute.”

He’s too stunned to argue. I take off my helmet, ignore the cameraman, and head straight to the bleachers. Past the cheerleaders. Past the crowd. Up to where the air goes cold.

Bri’s still grinning like this is the highlight of her week. Her voice is low but cruel. That specific mean-girl pitch.

“…oh my God, you’re seriously with her? You remember who this is, right?” she’s saying to our mom, flipping her hair like she’s doing a TED Talk on public humiliation. “Little Miss No-Friends? Didn’t talk for like—what—three years?”

My mom’s face does this tight little twitch. Like she smells something sour. She tilts her head. “Is that true?”

And Braelie flinches.

As if her soul just crawled backwards into itself. Her lips part, but nothing comes out. Nothing. Her eyes are wide and wet and terrified and I don’t—fuck—I don’t get it.

I don’t get what’s happening.

I step up. “Bri, what the hell are you doing?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Just saying hi to your little girlfriend. Didn’t realize you were into freaks now.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t you fucking remember her? She used to cry when Mr. Jansen called on her. I used to call her Moan-a Lisa ‘cause her face always looked like she was about to sob.”

I glance down at her. The girl I’ve been kissing behind the gym. The one I text at 2 a.m. because I can’t fall asleep without hearing her voice. And she’s gone. Like mentally checked out. And still, I don’t get it. She doesn’t say a word. Just pulls off the jersey—slow, like it’s burning her—and hands it back without looking me in the eye. Walks off. Quiet. Shaking.

And I don’t chase her because I can’t fucking move. Not until I lie in bed, text her twice and FaceTime her just to be aired. And wait for her to comeback for three whole weeks. But no. Just radio silence.

I don’t even know how I got her address.

I mean—I do. But I’m not tryna incriminate myself on a public record, so let’s just say I got resourceful. You’d be amazed what people leave unlocked on the school computers when they go refill their Diet Coke.

Also, Coach’s secretary types slow as hell.

I knock.

No answer.

I knock again.

Still nothing.

I wait.

And then the door cracks open. A few inches. Enough for her eye, red-rimmed and glassy, to peek out like she’s expecting a landlord or the Grim Reaper.

My breath stutters. Fuck. What was I supposed to say? “Fuck. Hi. Hi Braelie.”

“Can I come in?” I ask. Then I add, “I brought something.”

I hold up the jersey. It’s still folded the way she’d left it in my hands.