It… can’t be… right?
Me:
Hold on. Which game?
Cherry:
Why?
Me:
Because I’m literally at a game right now.
There’s a long pause before she replies. Feels like it takes for fucking ever, until I feel my phone vibrate and her text comes through.
Cherry:
Oh.
I blink down at my phone. Could she be watchingthisgame?
Me:
What game are you at?
I watch the dots come and go, my stomach twisted in this weird knot.
Cherry:
We said no details. Remember?
Me:
Cherry. Are you at Colton U?
More dots. Longer this time.
Cherry:
Please don’t come find me.
That makes my pulse spike.
Holy shit.
She’shere.
My head jerks up, eyes snapping to the crowd like I’ll spot her among thousands of fans packed into the stands, bundled in team jerseys and face paint, swinging foam fingers and waving cardboard signs.
I shift in my seat, trying to get a better view of the bleachers across from the bench. The lights catch on a dozen ponytails. Girls in beanies, flannels, fleece vests. That girl two rows down with popcorn in her lap and her eyes glued to her phone—could be her. Or maybe the one in the oversized hoodie near the railing, tapping something out with her thumbs and smirking at the screen.
Is she alone? With friends?
Is she someone I know?
The thought knocks something loose in my chest. My stomach flips, too full of nerves and questions.
I lean forward, my elbows digging into my knees as I scan the crowd again, searching for something—anything—that might make it click. Like I’ll justknow. Like my heart will recognize her before my brain does.
