Thankfully, my last one of the day is teacher’s aide, so I’m already allowed to leave five minutes prior to the bell every day, but I decide to slip out a few early. All so I can jump in my car and take off before anyone spots me.

I know the girls, and they’ll sense something is off the second they lay eyes on me and I can’t exactly explain what’s going on without giving up mine and Nico’s secret and I’m not ready for that.

So, to kill time and make sure they can’t seek me out, I drive to the coffee shop across town and study until my eyes begin to burn.

It’s almost six-thirty when I look at my watch, and I know the girls have called me at least a half dozen times by now with it being game night.

Other than the few away games the girls’ squad didn’t travel to over the years, there hasn’t been a single game I’ve missed. Carley and I are always around to cheer them on. Now, if you add in my boyfriend being on the team, I’m expected even more to be loud and proud and present.

I won’t be today. At least, not where they can see.

Not when I know Miranda will be there trying to get attention.

She said she needed to get a better idea of space for proper placement since the gym is more wide than narrow like the field and apparently being there with her handy little GoPro for cheer’s half-time performance will help with that.

I let out a heavy exhale.

The last thing I need right now is to be angry with an instructor of mine. Of course she’s hot for Nico.

He’s an eighteen-year-old high school senior with the body of an NFL star and the allure of Hollywood’s finest.

Still, I want to tell her to fuck off and find a new center who can do what I can. I have my normal dance studio and team, and if I didn’t need this on my college applications, I might not even go back.

Shaking off the annoyance, I park on the backside of the school so I can walk the long way around the building and slip into the library.

I take the stairs Nico led me up when he shared his spot with me, not bothering to move toward the edge of the rooftop this time but drop into the chair Nico sat in the day we were up here together.

I drop my Gatorade and survey the sky as the sun begins to set while I wait for the game to start.

Sure enough, right when the wind blows in, and the summer night’s air hits, I can only faintly hear Mr. Freeman’s voice float across the field as he announces the game.

Thankfully, I have perfect vision, so when I move closer, I can make out each jersey.

Not that number 24 allows himself to be missed.

After the National Anthem ends, the team captains take the field for the coin toss, and then it’s game time – Spartans set to receive.

I stay there, on the edge of the roof, my eyes trailing Nico’s every move. Before I realize it, it’s halftime, and the team gathers at the far right of their endzone.

The cheer squads walk out, meeting in the middle, before they run over to the opposite side to watch as the visiting team performs before switching back for their turn.

I smile when they give a small booty pop and point to the crowd, fighting the urge to clap when it’s over even though there’s no one around to hear me if I did.

My joy is short lived, frustration taking its place as Miranda keeps her stupid camera pointed forward and walks for the guys.

They’re just beginning to stand and snap their helmets back in place as she approaches.

Of course, she makes her way around the group, pausing when she’s only feet from Nico.

And just like that, I’m over the game.

I take the stairs two at a time, making my way to the studio room.

The lights are all off, but the door is open, so I go right in, taking a few minutes to set up the sound system. Right when I get it ready to hit play, a voice catches me from behind, and I jump.

The janitor stands there with a frown. “Ms. Davenport?”

I smile meekly. “Sorry, Jan. I was hoping to get in some extra work, if that’s okay?”

She nods, lifting a shoulder as she glances around. “Well, I haven’t hit this room yet, and I’ve got at least fifteen more to go, so I don’t see why not. Just be sure to leave it how you found it?”

“Thanks.” I smile, turning back to the stereo when she walks away.

I kick my shoes off, toss my sweater beside them and press play.

I face the mirror, wait for the base to hit, and then I let go.

I drop my shoulder, running right through the defender who comes in for the tackle.

Too high, asshole, gotta go for the legs.

The safety dropped back, so it’s only him and I left, or so I thought.

I’m blindsided by some prick who slipped passed his block and I slam to the turf with a groan.

I jump up, leaving the ball where I landed and push off the guy who attempts to pat me on the back.

That’s when I notice the flag that was thrown, and we’re hit with a penalty.

Thirty-yard carry, fucking busted.

I jog to the huddle and spit out my mouthpiece. “What the hell happened?”

“Personal foul.” Trent turns to Thompson. “I don’t give a shit about your beef with that guy out there, let it go. You just cost us Nic’s yards, and another fucking fifteen.” His glare quickly flies to me. “You, chill the fuck out, too. Don’t go gettin’ another fuckin’ flag.”

“Fuck you, roll out.”

He scowls but calls off the next play and we’re back in formation.

I’m wide open, but Trent throws the ball to Alex.

The bitch catches it, taking it down to the twenty-yard line.

He jumps up, knocking shoulders with Thompson, smirking as he passes by me.

His eyes cut to the stands on his way back, and fuck if mine don’t do the same.

Carley sits there, and as if she knows I’m looking at her, she lifts her hand.

Still no Demi.

But as my eyes move down the bleachers, they freeze.

My dad sits there, clapping his fucking hands, while simultaneously shaking his head.

“Nic!”

My head snaps forward and I hustle back to the huddle.

Everyone breaks, but I stick back when Trent does.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“You’ve got a big fuckin’ mouth, that’s what,” I spit and he glares. “Give me the ball.”

“No,” he snaps. “Line up.”

“Trent—”

“You’re hot headed, clearly pissed about something.” The coach shouts for us to hurry up in the background. “I’m not risking a fucking pick because you wanna showboat.”

“My dad’s here.”

Trent’s eyes cut to mine and he curses.

“Get to the fucking ball and stop being a prick,” he growls, and we rush into position before a delay of game is called.

I go out for the pass, jumping up and over the safety who hung deep.

I catch the ball, my feet touching the ground right before I’m tackled, but the pass was successful and that’s a touchdown for the Spartans.

And because there’s something twisted about me I can’t control, I look at the poor excuse of a man in the bleachers, telling myself all I want to do is prove him wrong in life while refusing to believe any part of me still wishes to please him.

My frustration is only fueled more by my dad’s lack of response, even though it was fully expected.