“Rex!” A short, muscly man walking up behind Rex shouts. He looks pissed, eyebrows pulled down over his small eyes. He needs to stop, lift those brows back up. His hairline-forehead combo is unfortunate enough. It’s like they can’t stand to be around each other—forehead jutting forward and hairline running back—far, far away.

Rex lets go of my hand and stands up.

The man walks past us and makes a strong wave motion for Rex to follow. The man is wearing khakis and a dark green vest over a white polo shirt, which is way too tight around his biceps. Dark green and white, same colors as Rex’s warm-ups. That’s got to be his coach.

Rex follows him to the side of the bleachers, near the entrance, where the man snatches Rex by the elbow. Rex doesn’t pull away. Then with his other hand, the man starts waving his pointer finger in Rex’s face.

Look, I get chastising players for not being where they’re supposed to be . . . not sitting with the team. Coach Hill does it, too. Makes us run suicides the next day after school. But is all this finger-waving and elbow-grabbing business really necessary? This man is being extra.

And Rex is standing there taking it. He’s more than a foot taller than the man, but by the way he’s standing with his head all down and his shoulders all hunched over, you can barely tell. It’s like he’s leaning into the verbal beating. I hate it.

Doesn’t Rex know who he is? He’s Rex Carrington! He’s ESPN’s high school player of the year, for Christ’s sake! And I wish I could remember all the other things Cole told me, but it’s a lot. Way too much to be standing there taking that man’s shit.

Rex wipes his face.

And then I realize he’s crying.

And this familiar feeling shoots through me. It’s the same deep-throated darkness I feel when I see Daddy sad. Everything in me wants to go to Rex. Wants to tell that man to fuck off. But I’d only get him into more trouble.

Head hanging, Rex exits the gym without looking back. When his coach walks past me, I catch him giving me a once-over.

Fifteen minutes later Rex comes back through the gym’s double doors in street clothes—gray T, black Nike joggers, and some Jordans 1s. Damn, I can’t believe his coach is benching him for the game. Because of me. Along the sidelines Rex walks toward me but won’t look at me. Won’t even look in my direction.

My eyes are on his eyes, pleading with them to connect, but he looks straight ahead, gaze cold. Everything in me freezes with the fear that this thing between us that only just began is already over.