AVERY
I'm still clutching the pillow in my hand like a weapon of dignity, heart hammering in my chest, my face burning hotter than it probably should. His words echo in the room—"Maybe you just like me." he'd said. Like it was nothing. Like it wasn't going to bounce around in my head for the rest of the day like a song I can't shake off. This boy is going to be the death of me—if embarrassment doesn't kill me first.
I drop the pillow and sit at the edge of my bed, pulling on the sweatshirt he tossed. His sweatshirt, actually. I realize it only when the fabric slides over my skin and smells like him—warm cedar and something faintly spicy, like cinnamon left too long in a mug.
The bathroom door is closed now, and he's singing inside—loud, off-key, and obnoxious. I roll my eyes but can't help the twitch of a smile tugging at my lips. He's always been annoying, but lately, there's a strange lightness to it.
Like he's trying to breathe again. Trying to be whole.
I get ready in silence, moving through the motions with muscle memory. Jeans. My old faded tee—the one with the tiny ink stain on the hem no one notices but me. It's familiar, mine, and I need that today. I twist my damp hair into a quick braid, loop it over my shoulder, and avoid looking in the mirror too long. I already know I look flustered.
I'm slipping on my sneakers just as I hear the water shut off.
I glance up—and freeze.
Shawn steps out, shirtless, steam still curling around him like some cinematic slow-mo moment. His towel is slung carelessly over his shoulders, the ends trailing across his bare chest. Water beads down the line of his collarbone and over the muscle definition I definitely shouldn't be looking at.
But I do.
And apparently, so very doomed.
His damp hair sticks to his forehead, wild and unruly, and for a second, he doesn't even notice me watching.
When his eyes finally meet mine, he pauses—just briefly—like he caught the way I froze.
"Didn't expect to walk out onto a runway," he says with a lopsided grin, voice still scratchy from the shower.
"I didn't expect a shirtless Greek statue to emerge from the mist," I blurt, then instantly want to throw myself out the window. "I mean—ugh. Forget I said that."
He tilts his head, clearly enjoying every second. "Greek statue, huh?"
I grab the nearest thing—a hairbrush—and point it at him like a weapon. "If you don't put on a shirt in the next five seconds, I'm launching this at your abs."
"Only my abs?" he teases, stepping just a little closer.
"Five seconds, Shawn."
Laughing, he finally grabs his Jersey off the chair and yanks it over his head in one fluid motion. The muscles disappear, but the smirk stays.
"You're so easy to fluster, Dramaqueen."
"I'm not flustered," I say too quickly, my face still a traitorous shade of red.
"Sure," he says, throwing on his Jersey. "And I'm not incredibly good-looking. Let's both keep lying to ourselves."
His eyes scan me like he's surprised.
"Oh you're ready already," he says.
"Some of us don't perform concerts in the shower," I reply, slinging my water bottle into my bag.
He smirks, undeterred. "Hey, that concert was Grammy-worthy. You're just jealous you didn't get a ticket. I'll let you in next time."
"I'll survive," I mutter, brushing past him and toward the door. "We're gonna be late."
He slips on his sneakers and follows me toward the door.
And damn him—he's still smiling.
Shawn jogs ahead and holds the door open with an exaggerated bow.
"After you, Your Royal Dramaqueen."
I roll my eyes. "I swear, if you call me Dramaqueen one more time—"
He grins like he's already planning to do it again.
And I hate how much I don't actually hate him teasing me.
By the time we leave the room, the campus is buzzing. Students are gathered outside in little packs, holding energy drinks and wearing whatever passed as "sportswear" around here. The match isn't just a game—it's an event.
A break in the mundanity.
A shot at pride. Or just an excuse to scream for 90 minutes.
We reach the field and everyone's already filling the bleachers. The sun is way too bright, the kind that makes everything look overexposed, and the grass smells freshly cut, like they wanted this to actually look good on paper or in a newsletter photo.
Shawn gets swarmed immediately by a couple of his teammates. Some slap him on the back, others tease him about being the principal's kid.
"You ready to get crushed by Queen's, Carter Junior?" one shouts.
He smirks and raises a middle finger. "Only thing that's getting crushed is your ego, Marcus."
Typical Shawn. Back in full form.
I head to the bleachers with Sheryl and Jose. Sheryl's wearing a ridiculous foam finger she probably made in the art room, and Jose has two cans of soda and a face painted. He looks like someone handed him a glitter bomb and said "Go wild."
The whistle blows once.
Then twice.
The game is about to start. My heart beats faster than I'd like to admit.
I search for Shawn on the field. He's stretching, talking to one of his teammates, but his eyes flicker to the bleachers. To me.
And for a second, it's just us again. Just like the cafeteria. Just like the hallway. Just like the dorm room where I threw that pillow and he laughed like nothing in the world could ruin him.
He winks.
I roll my eyes.
But I don't stop smiling.
There's excitement inside me but also a fear about the match.