I expected her to freak out—throw a pillow, demand answers, ask what the hell I’m doing getting tangled up with her older brother. But she doesn’t. She just curls another piece, sprays it, and glances at me like she’s waiting for me to speak first.
I don’t.
Instead, I stare at the jersey on the chair. Grey, white, and hunter green. Number 17. Kane’s number. His world. His scent still clings to the fabric, faint and stubborn.
“You’re gonna wear it?” Kinsley asks, finally breaking the silence.
I nod slowly. “I think so.”
She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But I see the flicker in her eyes. Not judgment. Not jealousy. Just… worry.
“You don’t have to explain,” she says. “I get it. He’s intense. But he’s not stupid. If he’s choosing you, he means it.”
I swallow hard. “It’s not just him I’m worried about.”
She turns off the curling wand and sets it down. “The crowd?”
I nod again. My throat’s tight. “It’s going to be packed. Loud. I don’t know if I can—“
“You don’t have to stay long,” she says gently. “Just show up. Let him see you. Then we can bail if it gets too much.”
I look at her. Really look. She’s calm. Steady. The kind of anchor I didn’t know I needed.
I reach for the jersey and slip it over my head.
It’s heavy. Familiar. Terrifying.
But I wear it anyway.
Because I promised him.
Because I want to be brave.
Because I want to be his—even if just for today.
Kinsley sets the curling wand down and turns to me, her voice soft. “Want me to do your hair?”
I blink. “What?”
She shrugs, casual. “You always wear it straight when you’re nervous. I figured… maybe curls would feel different. Lighter.”
I hesitate. My fingers twitch against the hem of Kane’s jersey. “I don’t know.”
She pats the stool in front of her. “Sit. Let me help.”
I move slowly, like I’m stepping into something sacred. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t push. Just sections my hair and starts curling, the wand spinning through blonde strands with practiced ease. The heat smells like product and comfort. Her hands are gentle. Steady.
“You don’t have to be anyone but yourself,” she says quietly. “Even in his jersey.”
I swallow hard. “I’m scared.”
“Of the crowd?”
I nod. “Of being seen. Of being his in front of everyone.”
She pauses, then resumes curling. “You already are. This just makes it visible.”
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of her movements settle me. The curls fall soft around my shoulders, framing my face like armor made of silk.
