Evidently, they were on backorder due to the upcoming holidays, but he was able to track down a pair this week.

The thought of Jace Covington jumping through hoops so he could get my aunt a pair of shoes is…mind-boggling.

Especially since we haven’t spoken.

Sawyer purses her lips. “I’d say text him, but after wham, bam, thank you ma ’am-ing you before kicking yo—”

“Okay,” Oakley declares. “That’s enough girl talk.”

Sawyer looks over his head. “I think they’re serving gourmet hot chocolate at the concession stand tonight. Want to get some?”

It will be the most expensive cocoa powder and water I’ve ever had, but it’s freezing, so I’m game. “Sure, let’s go.” I look at Oakley. “Want anything?”

He starts to speak but Sawyer cuts him off. “Dylan, he’s a traitor. Let the boy fend for himself.”

I suspect my girl may be a not-so-secret fan of the Knights.

Or maybe just Cole. Then again, she still swears she doesn’t like him and claims he makes her skin crawl…so maybe not.

“Sorry, cous. Knights’ fans only,” I say before we scurry down the stairs.

“Are you going to Christian’s tonight?” Sawyer asks after we get in line.

“Probably not. I’m pooped.”

She frowns. “I forgot you had to work on Thanksgiving.” She gives her head a shake. “Even my boss wasn’t that heartless, and that’s saying something.”

Yup, Sawyer’s boss at Cluck You—the chicken restaurant she works at—makes mine look like a saint.

“It wasn’t so bad. Only a half-day yesterday. Granted we were slammed the whole time.”

So slammed Mrs. Dickinson let everyone order whatever they wanted without argument.

“Are you working tomorrow?”

Nope. Normally I work on Saturdays, but I’ll be doing something much worse.

Visiting my dad in jail.

My aunt said he’s been calling and asking her to convince me to see him.

I wasn’t going to, but then I recalled Jace’s assumption about my relationship with my father being better now that Savannah was out of the picture.

Obviously, that’s not the case, but it still struck a chord with me.

I never saw him being in jail as an opportunity to reconnect, but now that the dust has settled, I’m hopeful I can salvage my relationship with him.

It would be awesome if something positive came out of such a disaster.

Sawyer waves a hand up and down. “Earth to Dylan.”

Oh, shit. “No,” I answer. “I’m not working tomorrow.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

I chew my bottom lip, debating the right words to say. Sawyer knows all about the drama with my dad, but I don’t want her doing her typical Sawyer thing and well…caring.

The girl will end up baking me cookies, offering to drive the two hours it takes to get to the jail, queuing up my favorite songs on the way there, and giving me her shoulder to cry on in the process.

It makes her an incredible friend, but I don’t want her to feel like she did something wrong when I’m not responsive to it.

Ever since I found my mother dead on the kitchen floor, I’ve learned to bury all my feelings and emotions regarding her death and other bad shit into a box and tuck it away.

According to the therapist my dad forced me to see when I was younger, it was my way of coping with something so heavy at a young age.

Then again, she also told my dad it was only a matter of time before I’d snap, and that has yet to happen, so fuck her.

“I uh…I’m visiting my dad,” I whisper so no one around us will hear.

Her eyes widen. “What? Really? Wow…that’s huge.”

I know. “Yeah, but I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

She eyes me skeptically. “Afraid you might chicken out?”

I’m starting to hate how perceptive she is. “Yeah.”

She gives my hand a small squeeze. “I’m here if you need me.”

I know.

Fortunately, we’re next in line.

We order our hot chocolates—and one for Oakley because we’re both softies—and make our way back to the stands.

At least, that was the plan. I’m so distracted by the idea of seeing my dad, I’m not paying attention and I bump into someone. Hot chocolate spills over the side of my cup, but I’m too focused on Jace to care.

His full lips and chiseled cheekbones are slightly flushed from the cold and both hands are tucked into the pocket of his black hoodie.

As always, he looks so gorgeous it makes my breath catch.

The bastard.

“Watch where you’re going.”

And he’s not alone.

Casey—Britney’s second in command, and the one slated to take over her position as cheer captain next year—is next to him.

I can’t help but notice that the Knights’ jacket draped over her shoulders is three times too big for her petite frame and shields most of her cheerleading uniform.

It’s obviously not hers.

My heart twists painfully in my chest.

Jace grabs a napkin from a nearby table and hands it to me, but I back away.

I don’t want anything from him…ever.

All he does is hurt me.

For the briefest of moments, his eyes soften. “Dyl—”

“Come on, Jace. I have to be back on the field in two minutes,” Casey says curtly.

She huffs when he doesn’t budge. “Fine. I’ll get my own bottle of water.” She shrugs out of her jacket and throws it at him. “Give your brother his jacket back after the game.” Her eyes sharpen on Sawyer. “I don’t want my boyfriend getting mad at me.”

Beside me, Sawyer tenses up.

I’d heard a rumor about Cole and Casey being an item, but after the Britney rumor turned out to be false, I assumed this one was too.

The flummoxed look on Sawyer’s face tells me I’m not the only one.

Appearing satisfied, Casey flutters her fingers in a dainty wave before skipping off to the concession stand.

Jace’s eyes ping-pong between us like he wants to say something, but I’m not interested.

I chuck one of my hot chocolates and grab Sawyer’s hand, because even though she might not say it, I know she needs the support.

For some reason, she truly believed Cole was a good guy underneath his flirty, outgoing exterior.

But he’s not. Neither of them are.

The only good Covington brother is dead.

“Breathe,” I whisper as we brush past him. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Although I’m not sure who I’m trying to comfort. Her or myself.

“What the hell?” Oakley mutters when the kicker for the Vikings misses their field goal. “That was our only hope!”

Sawyer and I exchange a glance. Hardly.

We’re in the fourth quarter and the score is twenty-three to three in favor of the Knights.

Even if the kicker scored, it still wouldn’t be enough to put the Vikings ahead.

From the stands I see number sixteen—who Sawyer pointed out earlier was Tommy—punch his hand in frustration.

Can’t say I blame him. They’re getting creamed tonight.