“Damn it,” I said, crossing one leg over the other. “That settles it then. You are a better hacker than me.” My shoulders sank a little at the thought. There was something about being better than the infamous Dean Winters that totally would’ve boosted my confidence.

“What?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “That is impossible to tell.”

I scoffed. “I tried and failed to get into the TOC.” Though, in all fairness, I hadn’t configured my equipment to the optimum performance standards that I knew about now, and a few seconds had cost me a ticket, but still. He was going. I wasn’t. And the competition was beyond insane—all ages could compete, meaning there were veteran hackers who had started movements all the way to pre-teens wanting to be the next Google intern.

“Which day did you compete on?” he asked.

“Two. You?”

“Three.”

“Well,” I said, sucking in a sharp breath. “I’ll come watch you. If you want support.”

“I’d love to have you there,” he said, and it actually sounded like he meant it. “But…”

Oh shoot me now.

“It’s in Boston this year, second week of March. Wouldn’t want to rob you of pre-spring-break parties.”

Sure, Boston was over two hours away, but it would be worth the haul to watch him win.

“Parties? Have you spotted me at many this summer?” Ice splintered in my stomach—I hadn’t been to a party since Brandon. Since…

“No,” he admitted. “Not that I’ve been hitting many, either, though.” He glanced back at his gear. “I lose time.”

“Me, too.” I nodded. “Brandon always gave me shit about wanting to spend time with my computer over doing keg stands or Jell-O shots.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them and I shifted in my seat.

Damn Hannah for making me think about my ex too many times today. Not that I could totally blame her. I constantly saw the guy in the halls. Usually that’s when I sprinted in the opposite direction with acid building in my throat threatening to spew Exorcist style. I totally needed to get a handle on that reaction, but I was lost on how to do so.

“Brandon is a dick.” A muscle ticked in his jaw as he leaned back in his seat.

I pressed my lips together, trying to contain my shock. They weren’t friends, but most of the school adored Brandon. The star football player who won Wilmont championships, maintained a 4.0 GPA, and threw all-expenses-paid ragers.

Not many people knew what he turned into when he drank said Jell-O shots.

My skin prickled and I folded my arms over my chest.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “I know he’s your boyfriend—”

“He so isn’t my boyfriend,” I cut him off.