about how hard they worked. Someone started a chant with the quarterback’s name. Then Headmaster Bradford would go on a rampage about how homecoming night was not an excuse to toss away one’s goals and throw caution to the wind.
This year was no different, except I realized how alone I’d been every other homecoming.
As I glanced over the rest of the student body, I saw Jordan sitting with some other scholarship students. Zara lounged on the bleachers with a few girls whose parents could probably pool together and buy North America. Callie sat with the band, and Ginger ran some AV equipment up front.
I missed all of them so much my heart physically ached.
My senses sparked with the feeling of someone watching me, and I noticed Beckett sitting with his team on the front row of the gym bleachers.
He grinned at me and lifted a hand before going back to a conversation with Carson. This would all be easier if he could just sit with me. Instead, I did what I’d done the three years prior: found the nearest open seat and waited for it all to be over.
After a painfully suggestive (and school-sanctioned, might I add) dance from the cheerleaders, Coach Ripley led his team onto the court. Pam Alexander handed him the microphone, her stilettos striking the gym floor. Coach Ripley had to hate that with all his talk of no street shoes on the wood.
Cringing, he took the mic from her. “Go, Drafters,” he said, and the entire crowd burst into wild applause.
Grinning now, Coach Ripley said, “Our boys have been working hard this year, and we have the homefield advantage against Brentwood Academy tonight.”
More cheers. More smiling. Typical.
“Our boys are going to need to play their best and stay focused on the game tonight if we want to have a real shot at a win. If we beat BA, it’ll mean great things for our team and these boys, including a trip to the playoffs. Come out and help us take this game!”
As the school cheered wildly, I watched Beckett. Smiling, he stood with the rest of his team, his shoulders drawn back, his hands clasped in front of his waist. My stomach swooped at the memory of those hands in my hair.
Would I ever feel that again?
I’d find out tonight.
Forty
The chill tonight was more pronounced than at the last game. I was glad I’d brought my own blanket since I couldn’t be relying on Ginger’s mom to supply me anymore. Honestly, I had no idea where I’d sit, or if I’d even see the others, aside from Callie.
I held my hot chocolate in both hands with a folded quilt draped over my arm and looked over the stands. They were packed. I caught sight of Aiden and Casey snuggled together, seated with several other cross-country team members. The thought of being their third wheel was lamer than sitting by myself. Or with my parents in the top row with some of their friends. However, with all the people here, sitting by myself might not be an option. I’d be packed up against someone one way or another
“Rory!” a familiar voice called.
I followed the sound and spotted Beckett’s dad. I lifted my hand in a wave and walked up a few stairs toward him. “Hi, Mr. Langley.”
“Robert,” he said. “Care to sit with me?” He seemed to think about his offer. “Would that be weird to sit with your boyfriend’s dad?”
My lips turned up at the word boyfriend. Beckett and I hadn’t discussed labels, but I liked the sound of it. I hoped that was where we were heading, if my confession didn’t blow up in my face.
“I’d like that,” I said. Maybe I could see the game from his perspective, understand why there was so much pressure on Beckett to follow in Robert’s footsteps.
He sidled over, making room for me on the edge of the row, which I was thankful for. Having an escape route when sitting with your dream guy’s father was always a good move.
But now I didn’t know what to talk about. He was a professional agent, and I didn’t even need all the fingers on one hand to count the amount of things I knew about football.
“Your parents staying busy?” he asked.
Ah, the small talk. “Yes,” I answered. “Dad’s been working late on some case, and my mom is...making waves in our school lunch program.”
He chuckled. “She’s a firecracker, your mom.”
“That’s one way to put it.” I sipped from my hot