When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,49

a running blur up the left side. In fractions of a second, my brain and arm calculated angle and distance. I let fly.

Two defenders sandwiched me just as the ball left my hand. The air pushed out of my lungs with a woosh as we all went to the ground, my head rattling inside my helmet. For a few chaotic seconds my world was churned turf, muttered curses and grunts, and flashes of the red and white jerseys of our opponents piled on top of me

Then cheers filtered through the mob. Thunderous cheers. I smiled into the ground before being hauled to my feet by Chance and Mikey Grimaldi. Chance hooked his fingers in my face mask and bellowed. No words, just a mindless, barbaric scream of triumph.

I looked around to see dejected Coyotes, hands on their hips, shaking their bowed heads. The crowd was a frantic sea of blue and gold as a score now flashed 24-21, two seconds left on the clock.

Donte jogged back from the end zone, the game-winning ball tucked under his arm. We ran at each other, leaped, and crashed chests in midair. Our helmets pressed together, both of us pushing forward in a rush of adrenaline.

“Who did that?” he shouted in my face,

“You did that!” I shouted back. “Who did that?

“You did that!” Donte backed off and rapidly smacked his chest with a fist three times. “Come on! Come on.”

The coaching staff and players on the bench surged the field and our team huddled in a thrumming, jumping mass of triumph. Their energy surged through me too, but on different currents. I disentangled myself from the crowd and looked toward the bleachers. I picked them out instantly—Dad, Amelia…and my mom.

She was bundled head to toe for winter, furiously waving and cheering with the rest of them. She wasn’t supposed to make it to Christmas, but there she was. Not in remission, but the medications she was taking were working to hold the cancer at bay. To give her time. She was there and she got to see me play and witness my dad’s joy and pride.

That was victory.

Back at school a few days later, the guys and I were treated as heroes but the shine was already coming off the win for me. The season was over and I could put more hours in at the shop, though Dad was adamant I keep my rigorous workout schedule so I wouldn’t get “soft” by summer.

In Calculus, some of the kids broke out into applause when I stepped into class.

I felt Holden’s eyes on me as I took my seat. We’d hardly said a handful of words to each other since that night I called him from the hospital, desperate and freaked out. I’d never felt so alone in my life, and he’d been there, pulling me out of the dark pit.

I owe him more than the silent treatment.

Mr. Reynolds came around passing back our midterm exams.

“For the most part, very impressive.” He laid the papers face down on our desks. “A few of you had issues with derivative values, but overall, I’m very happy with your progress.”

At my desk, he put my exam face down with a smile. I felt eyes on me and looked up to see Holden, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

I gave him a lazy smirk and held up my test with its big red A.

He pursed his lips, mildly impressed, then revealed his A+.

Asshole.

I rolled my eyes with a laugh while he shrugged as if his baffling genius were out of his hands. Something tight and awkward between us loosened.

When class was over, I took a chance and followed him outside to a low wall that buffered the Geek Tree, where kids from the upper math classes and band members like to hang out.

“Hey, man.”

“Yesss,” he drawled, spinning on his heel to face me, his coat flaring around him. I was almost glad it was winter. Now his outfits made sense and weren’t a constant reminder of the horrors he’d suffered.

Today he looked goddamn devastating in a slate gray turtleneck sweater, black pants, and a long gray tweed coat. But then he always looked devastating. His very existence was a challenge to my willpower.

“How have you been?” I asked.

“Great. Never better.” He managed a dry smile. “Congrats on the big win.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I jammed my hands in my letterman jacket pockets. “So…have you put in college applications?”

“We’re doing small talk now, are we?”

“I don’t know. Better than not talking at all. Isn’t