HOMECOMING WAS the one day of the year we could dress however we wanted—as long as it displayed school spirit.
There were thousand-dollar jeans paired with tight EA shirts, blue and white tutus—on girls and guys—and even one kid in a complete blue spandex body suit. I’d settled on one of the skirts Zara got me, flat tennis shoes, and one of my dad’s Emerson Academy T-shirts.
When I got to school, Beckett was easy to spot in the hallway. He always stood out, with his height and build, but today he was surrounded. Everyone wanted to wish him good luck for the game against our school’s biggest rival. Plus, the cheerleaders were going around using face paint to put the Drafter’s quill on everyone’s cheeks.
Beckett caught sight of me and grinned. At least half a dozen people followed his gaze to me, and the girls seemed to be disappointed.
I lifted my hand in half a wave, and he pushed through them toward me.
As he passed a cheerleader, he said, “Can I have that?” “Sure,” she said and handed him her face-paint pen.
When Beckett reached me, his smile was still in place. “Hey, Cupcake.”
Thinking of his words from the night before made my heart beat toward him. “Hi, hot pants.”
With a laugh, he lifted the face paint. “Do you want something on your cheek? A quill? Or maybe a certain quarterback’s number?”
“Oh.” I adjusted my backpack strap. “Well, is the quarterback good- looking?”
“I mean…” Beckett plucked at the jersey stretched across his broad chest. “Only if you’re into the whole chiseled-abs, Greek-god kind of
thing.”
“How about the humble thing?”
He laughed. “Oh, he’s amazing at that too.”
Laughing, I pushed on his chest. “I would be honored.”
He came closer, one hand going behind my hair to hold the back of my head and the other resting featherlight on my cheek. The charge from his skin flowed through me as he made careful marks on my cheek.
When he finished, he stepped back, admiring his work. “How’d it turn out?” I asked.
He nodded appreciatively. “Not bad.” He reached into his pocket and got out his phone. “Let me take a picture.”
I was pretty sure Beckett would be the only person ever allowed to take pictures of me. Especially when he tucked me into his side so we could both fit on his phone screen together.
The side of his cheek brushed into my hair, and we both smiled at the screen. With a press of his finger, we were frozen together, forever, his jersey number on my cheek showing everyone I was his.
Even if he didn’t want to be mine after tonight, I would always, always, be his.
School that day passed in a flurry of activity until classes let out early for the pep rally. There was always a giant hubbub before the homecoming game, which the teachers tried to act like was less important than academics. If that were true, Kai Rush and Pixie Adler would be gods among the seniors with his skills on the violin and her insanely high grade point averages.
Instead, we worshipped the girls in tight skirts and the guys in tight pants. The cheerleaders always did a routine during the pep rally and held up hand-painted signs. The football players stood in a line in the gym while Coach Ripley talked about how hard they worked. Someone started a chant with the quarterback’s name. Then Headmaster Bradford would go on a rampage about how homecoming night was not an excuse to toss away one’s goals and throw caution to the wind.
This year was no different, except I realized how alone I’d been every other homecoming.
As I glanced over the rest of the student body, I saw Jordan sitting with some other scholarship students. Zara lounged on the bleachers with a few
girls whose parents could probably pool together and buy North America. Callie sat with the band, and Ginger ran some AV equipment up front.
I missed all of them so much my heart physically ached.
My senses sparked with the feeling of someone watching me, and I noticed Beckett sitting with his team on the front row of the gym bleachers.
He grinned at me and lifted a hand before going back to a conversation with Carson. This would all be easier if he could just sit with me. Instead, I did what I’d done the three years prior: found the nearest open seat and waited for it all to be over.
After a painfully suggestive (and school-sanctioned, might I add) dance from the cheerleaders, Coach Ripley led his team onto the court. Pam Alexander handed him the microphone, her stilettos striking the gym floor. Coach Ripley had to hate that with all his talk of no street shoes on the wood.
Cringing, he took the mic from her. “Go, Drafters,” he said, and the entire crowd burst into wild applause.
Grinning now, Coach Ripley said, “Our boys have been working hard this year, and we have the homefield advantage against Brentwood Academy tonight.”
More cheers. More smiling. Typical.
“Our boys are going to need to play their best and stay focused on the game tonight if we want to have a real shot at a win. If we beat BA, it’ll mean great things for our team and these boys, including a trip to the playoffs. Come out and help us take this game!”
As the school cheered wildly, I watched Beckett. Smiling, he stood with the rest of his team, his shoulders drawn back, his hands clasped in front of his waist. My stomach swooped at the memory of those hands in my hair.
Would I ever feel that again? I’d find out tonight.
