At the pissed-off-looking asshole, and at Abe, who looks like he wants to punch him.

I slap Hannah’s hand down. “Would you sit down! Oh my god, sit.”

“Rawr.” She meows like a feral alley cat, a sound she knows I hate. “You’re so salty.”

“I just don’t need you waving your arms all over the place. People are trying to see.”

“Literally nothing is happening. Why are we here so early?”

“Abe said to get here early, that’s why.”

“Oh Abe said, Abbbbe said,” she teases, popcorn crunching. “Blah blah blah, I’m Skylar. I have a boyfriend now.”

She’s the worst.

But.

Regardless, I preen, the words making me all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Shut up, I do not sound like that.”

“Blah blah blah I’m Skylar and I’m getting laid.”

“It was one time.” We did it once and I’m still sore between my legs; I’ve had to roll out of bed the past few nights to waddle into the bathroom. “And I still can’t walk straight.”

“That’s the sign of a good fucking.”

“No, that’s the sign of a girl who hasn’t been sexed in an age.”

“Those first few times hardly counted. Neither of you knew what you were doing.”

Hannah thinks she’s so wise.

“That’s the same thing you said about the blowjob situation.”

She points a finger up toward the ceiling to punctuate her point. “Also true.”

“Whatever.”

“Don’t pout. You’re getting the D, which is more than I can say for myself.”

“Now who’s pouting?”

My best friend ignores me, cocking her head and gazing down toward the court. “Don’t you think Abe looks pissed?”

It’s hard to say from here, but once the big brooding guy stalks away, Abe begins to pace back and forth along the edge of the blue wrestling mats, hands behind his head.

Then the lunges begin, his thigh muscles flexing, thick and hard and tight…all words that describe his penis and my vagina and dear God I’ve got sex on the brain.

I shift in my seat uncomfortably.

“What’s the matter, little mama? Does the sight of your man in spandex get you all hot and bothered?”

“Shut up.”

“Look at JB over there, strutting around in his singlet. Shit, I wish I had boy-noculars so I could check out his package.” She squints in his general direction. “It’s so hard to see it from here. I hope they put it on the jumbotron.”

“They’re not going to put his dick on the big screen.”

“They might.”

“They won’t.”

She nudges me. “You’re the one who made me come—can you at least be optimistic? Stop being a Debbie Downer and let me have some fun.”

I’m trying. “Sorry, I’m so nervous.”

“Why? It’s not like he’s going to come charging over here at you through the stands. I doubt you’ll get the chance to even talk to him afterward. There are a billion people here.”

More like a few thousand.

“I am surprised he spotted you, though,” Hannah admits through the ridiculous amount of popcorn in her mouth. “He must have been looking pretty damn hard.”

“I’m surprised too, but he did tell me where to sit so he kind of knew where to look.”

“True. He must have an eagle eye, because what are the odds he’d actually see you? Everyone looks the same—except those assholes in blue.”

The players—I mean, wrestlers—all shuck their warm-up attire, an assistant coming around to collect the discarded pants and jackets as the guys continue to stretch in place when the lights in the stadium dim. Above us, the jumbotron comes to life, the arena filling with loud music as an announcer’s voice booms through the speakers. Video clips of previous wrestling meets play on the massively large screens, the winningest wrestlers from each team flashing overhead one by one with their statistics.

My heart stalls when the headshot of Abraham Davis’ handsome face stops front and center. Name. Age. Year. Weight. Height. Wins. Pins; I have no idea what the terminology is because I haven’t googled a thing about the sport.

Does that make me a bad girlfriend? A terrible sports fan with no school spirit?

Or just lazy?

Either way, I vow to do a bit of research at some point so I don’t sound completely naïve if Abe brings it up. Or asks a question, because how embarrassing would it be if he did, and I had no idea what a Macho Man Randy Savage is or who sings “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble”.

Wait. Is that even the same sort of wrestling?

Hannah bumps me with her free arm. “This is so exciting. Now I do wish I’d boned JB—he’s hot.”

“It’s the dim lights. Makes him look like less of a douche.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” She gives me a side glance, offering me her bucket of popcorn. “Want some?”

“No thanks.”

“You sure? You didn’t eat before we left.”

Is she keeping tabs on me now? “I would choke and die.”

Hannah rolls her eyes. “I haven’t been to any sporting events in forever. I feel like a failure. Look.” She points. “Just look at all those skanks over there, hoping to get laid by one of these guys later.”

“I think they’re called jock chasers.”

“Jersey chasers,” she adds knowingly. “Yup. Wantin’ that M-R-S degree.”

“I don’t think these guys can go pro. It’s not like football—I mean, what is there after this?”

“The Olympics,” Hannah says with authority, and I wonder how the hell she knows all this.

Music plays. Lights flash. Little by little, the house lights come back on, a spotlight on the center mat, signaling the first match of the day.

It’s not Abe. It’s not JB. It’s some kid named Bryan Vanderwahl and I can barely watch as he flips and flops like a fish out water, gasping for breath and losing the good fight. Poor guy, and in front of all these people, too.

“No girl is going to want to bang that one later,” Hannah announces, loud enough for anyone to hear.

“Would you shut up? What if that lady over there is his mother?”

She clamps a hand over her loose lips. “Shit, sorry.”

One more guy.

Then another, and another, and another until…

Abe.

Tall, strong, beautiful Abe.

I can’t watch. What if he loses? I’ll die. What if he’s the kind of athlete who’s inconsolable after a loss? What if he’s angry and wants to be left alone? Do guys cry when they don’t win?

What will I say?

“Uncover your eyes, you chicken. You’re missing it.” Hannah removes the arm I’m using as a shield to block out the match now in progress down on the mats and forces my hand back into my lap. “You’re the worst girlfriend ever.”

But Abe isn’t losing.

He’s…got the Penn State kid hoisted in his arms, about to lay him out on his back, and the crowd is going wild—so loud I wish they’d all just shut the fuck up so I can concentrate harder, because whoa.