chocolate. Thank goodness the concession stand wasn’t in on the hEAlthy program. “Beckett was excited you were coming to watch.”
A regretful look crossed his visage. “I haven’t made it to as many as I’d like.”
“Me either,” I admitted. I’d missed so much in high school. Just a few weeks with Beckett showed me what life could be like when I stopped shrinking away from the crowd.
He nodded. “There will be plenty of games to watch in college if you and Beckett go to the same place.”
My heart lurched. Beckett and me? Going to the same college? He’d said it like it could become reality. I hadn’t even gotten that far in my dreams.
The announcer came over the speaker system, letting the crowd know the result of the coin toss and reminding us the homecoming king and queen would be named at the beginning of halftime.
As the game progressed, I realized how differently Robert and I viewed Beckett. Robert’s eyes followed his son across the field, calculating moves, seeing openings, counting successes and cursing missed opportunities. I watched Beckett just as closely, but in admiration—of his hard work and his power and his heart, on and off the field. Seeing him get tackled felt like being hit myself. Watching him get up made my spirits rise. Had there ever been a time I didn’t feel like my heart was suited up on the field, being targeted by eleven muscled guys with blood in their eyes?
When the second quarter ended and Beckett was still standing, still fighting, I let out a sigh of relief. The score was tied, seventeen to seventeen, though. It wasn’t a downhill battle by any means.
Robert’s eyes were alight with anticipation. “How do you think it will shake out?”
I shrugged under the weight of my quilt. “I have no idea. I’m hoping they can pull it off.”
“They will,” he said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Their focus is there,” he answered, his eyes on the field, toward the girls lining up in their gowns and the guys still in football pads. “The first half is all about skill, energy, conditioning. The second half is purely mental.”
I nodded, feeling better about my decision to wait to tell Beckett until after tonight. This game was important to the team. I didn’t want to ruin their chances at playoffs by distracting him.
“That’s not normal, is it?” Robert asked, nodding toward the freshmen approaching the stands with trays loaded with cupcakes.
“No.” My eyebrows drew together. “Why would they be handing out cupcakes?”
Robert shrugged. “Funny coincidence, though. That Becks calls you that.”
My heart froze. It was a coincidence; it had to be. But I couldn’t escape the feeling like something really bad was about to happen—like when the sky becomes charged before a lightning strike.
As the freshmen passed out desserts to the crowd, the announcer named the homecoming king—Beckett.
I anxiously clapped my hands together. A freshman handed me a cupcake similar to the one I’d eaten my first night seeing Beckett at the Seaton Bakery. My stomach turned.
And then the announcer boomed, “And your homecoming queen, Merritt Alexander!”
In her shimmery dress, Merritt beamed, taking the bouquet of flowers and bending her head so the tiara could be placed upon her blond curls.
The tradition was for the homecoming king and queen to share a kiss, but Beckett stepped back and extended his hand.
I grinned like an idiot.
But then Pam Alexander stepped onto the field and handed her daughter a microphone.
Forty-One
“I would like to thank the entire student body for blessing me with this complete honor,” Merritt trilled. “And look at the king I’ve been paired with! Can he get a round of applause?”
Robert’s eyebrows came together as he clapped for his son, but I couldn’t move. I wanted to run to the field—to cover Beckett’s ears and draw him away from the bloodshed about to happen. The entire school could find out about the bet from Merritt, except him. I’d wanted to do that.
“Unfortunately, this crown doesn’t belong to me anymore!” Merritt said, sending hushed murmurs through the stands. “See, about a month ago, Aurora Hutton and I made a bet. She wanted me to believe that someone like her could win the love of Emerson Academy’s quarterback.”
Robert’s voice hummed low beside me. “Rory? Is she talking about you?”
My legs moved, mechanically pushing me forward, down the stairs, past the freshmen and their diminishing dessert trays. That didn’t matter. My eyes were on Beckett. At the confused look on his face as he searched the