THE CHILL TONIGHT was more pronounced than at the last game. I was glad I’d brought my own blanket since I couldn’t be relying on Ginger’s mom to supply me anymore. Honestly, I had no idea where I’d sit, or if I’d even see the others, aside from Callie.
I held my hot chocolate in both hands with a folded quilt draped over my arm and looked over the stands. They were packed. I caught sight of Aiden and Casey snuggled together, seated with several other cross-country team members. The thought of being their third wheel was lamer than sitting by myself. Or with my parents in the top row with some of their friends. However, with all the people here, sitting by myself might not be an option. I’d be packed up against someone one way or another
“Rory!” a familiar voice called.
I followed the sound and spotted Beckett’s dad. I lifted my hand in a wave and walked up a few stairs toward him. “Hi, Mr. Langley.”
“Robert,” he said. “Care to sit with me?” He seemed to think about his offer. “Would that be weird to sit with your boyfriend’s dad?”
My lips turned up at the word boyfriend. Beckett and I hadn’t discussed labels, but I liked the sound of it. I hoped that was where we were heading, if my confession didn’t blow up in my face.
“I’d like that,” I said. Maybe I could see the game from his perspective, understand why there was so much pressure on Beckett to follow in Robert’s footsteps.
He sidled over, making room for me on the edge of the row, which I was thankful for. Having an escape route when sitting with your dream guy’s father was always a good move.
But now I didn’t know what to talk about. He was a professional agent, and I didn’t even need all the fingers on one hand to count the amount of things I knew about football.
“Your parents staying busy?” he asked.
Ah, the small talk. “Yes,” I answered. “Dad’s been working late on some case, and my mom is…making waves in our school lunch program.”
He chuckled. “She’s a firecracker, your mom.”
“That’s one way to put it.” I sipped from my hot chocolate. Thank goodness the concession stand wasn’t in on the hEAlthy program. “Beckett was excited you were coming to watch.”
A regretful look crossed his visage. “I haven’t made it to as many as I’d like.”
“Me either,” I admitted. I’d missed so much in high school. Just a few weeks with Beckett showed me what life could be like when I stopped shrinking away from the crowd.
He nodded. “There will be plenty of games to watch in college if you and Beckett go to the same place.”
My heart lurched. Beckett and me? Going to the same college? He’d said it like it could become reality. I hadn’t even gotten that far in my dreams.
The announcer came over the speaker system, letting the crowd know the result of the coin toss and reminding us the homecoming king and queen would be named at the beginning of halftime.
As the game progressed, I realized how differently Robert and I viewed Beckett. Robert’s eyes followed his son across the field, calculating moves, seeing openings, counting successes and cursing missed opportunities. I watched Beckett just as closely, but in admiration—of his hard work and his power and his heart, on and off the field. Seeing him get tackled felt like being hit myself. Watching him get up made my spirits rise. Had there ever been a time I didn’t feel like my heart was suited up on the field, being targeted by eleven muscled guys with blood in their eyes?
When the second quarter ended and Beckett was still standing, still fighting, I let out a sigh of relief. The score was tied, seventeen to seventeen, though. It wasn’t a downhill battle by any means.
Robert’s eyes were alight with anticipation. “How do you think it will shake out?”
I shrugged under the weight of my quilt. “I have no idea. I’m hoping they can pull it off.”
“They will,” he said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Their focus is there,” he answered, his eyes on the field, toward the girls lining up in their gowns and the guys still in football pads. “The first half is all about skill, energy, conditioning. The second half is purely mental.”
I nodded, feeling better about my decision to wait to tell Beckett until after tonight. This game was important to the team. I didn’t want to ruin their chances at playoffs by distracting him.
“That’s not normal, is it?” Robert asked, nodding toward the freshmen approaching the stands with trays loaded with cupcakes.
“No.” My eyebrows drew together. “Why would they be handing out cupcakes?”
Robert shrugged. “Funny coincidence, though. That Becks calls you that.”
My heart froze. It was a coincidence; it had to be. But I couldn’t escape the feeling like something really bad was about to happen—like when the sky becomes charged before a lightning strike.
As the freshmen passed out desserts to the crowd, the announcer named the homecoming king—Beckett.
I anxiously clapped my hands together. A freshman handed me a cupcake similar to the one I’d eaten my first night seeing Beckett at the Seaton Bakery. My stomach turned.
And then the announcer boomed, “And your homecoming queen, Merritt Alexander!”
In her shimmery dress, Merritt beamed, taking the bouquet of flowers and bending her head so the tiara could be placed upon her blond curls.
The tradition was for the homecoming king and queen to share a kiss, but Beckett stepped back and extended his hand.
I grinned like an idiot.
But then Pam Alexander stepped onto the field and handed her daughter a microphone.
