She must sense the doom in my voice, because she puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m not going to tell Emory, okay? That’s your business.”
I release a hard breath and don’t ask her how she knows. It’s more of a mystery to me how anyone could not know. “Thank you,” I say instead.
Armed with a newspaper camera, I enter the gym a few minutes before the pep rally starts. Mr. Lee gave me a pass to get excused from class early, and so far, the room is filled with athletes, spirit teams, and a section of the marching band already mid-rehearsal. The drumbeat echoes off the high, metal ceiling. It’s one of those environments that a short time ago would have sent me running—or well, limping—away. It’s too noisy and over-stimulating. Now, behind the shield of my camera, I scope out the room, determining the best spot to get photos of the event. I know from past rallies that the coaches and team will be up on the stage, and the cheerleaders just below them. The dance team will perform on the gym floor and the band will stick to their corner of the bleachers.
I move backwards, camera in position, toward the stacked steps to see if I can get a decent shot of the stage and floor from this angle. I bump into something hard and steady.
“Hey,” Reyn says from behind me. “Got a minute?”
I don’t, not really, and neither does he. But I don’t fight him when he pulls me under the bleachers, fingers laced with mine as we traverse the narrow space. He stops and pushes my back against the wall. I notice his expression is tense.
“What’s up?” I ask, running a hand over his black jersey.
“George?” he blurts.
I blink, trying to follow his non-sequitur. Then I see the answer on his face. Jealousy.
“Seriously?” I ask, fighting the urge to laugh.
But Reyn’s face is stormy and hard. “He’s been sniffing around for weeks now. I mean, he already made one move on you.”
“Which I rejected,” I calmly remind him. “Full Heisman.”
He barks an abrupt laugh, eyes softening. “You know what a Heisman is?”
I roll my eyes and hold my hand out to his chest, blocking him, like on the coveted Heisman trophy. “I live in the south with a football-loving family. Of course, I know what a Heisman is. But that’s not the point. Why are you being weird?”
He swallows, fingers coming up to fidget with my hair. “I just don’t like it—him. George.”
I watch him brush my hair over my shoulder, and he does it so carefully. “Saying no is all I can do, Reyn. Plus, it’s not like…” I trail off.
“Like what?”
“Like I can say I have a…” Again, the words don’t fully form, but this time I clamp my mouth shut.
He eyes me. “A what?”
“Nothing.” I cross my arms over my chest and don’t miss his gaze dropping down. “You know, it’s not like I don’t see girls flirting with you all the time.”
He looks taken aback. “No one’s flirting with me.”
I scoff. I refuse to bring up Sydney. That’s partly out of fear. What if the rumor was true? It would crush me. And if it’s not? It’s not worth bringing up. It’ll only feed her need for rumors and gossip. “I’m just saying, scantily dressed men aren’t leaving baked goods in my locker.”
It’s his turn to scoff. “Come on, you know that’s just a stupid football thing. I don’t even know which one left it in my locker.” His fingers squeeze my hip and in a quieter voice, he asks, “What’s this about?”
“It’s about…” I look down to the end of the stands. Students are filing into the gym now. “It’s about labels. About what we are to one another.” Reyn and I had both made promises. Never Sydney. Never Sebastian. It hasn’t escaped my attention that we’ve never made promises about anyone else. The ambiguousness of it has this way of rattling me at completely random times.
He studies me, like he can see right through me. My skin prickles under the intensity, but his free hand grabs mine, threading our fingers together. “I don’t know what you want to call this, Baby V. It’s twisted and caught up in a bunch of bullshit and secrets—which, for the record, goes against all my instincts.” He hooks a finger under my chin, forcing my eyes to his.