“We’ll see.” As a rule, I limit how many football games I go to in a season. It’s a little too sad to spend all my time drooling over Chase and his magical shoulders. (Or watching him wipe his face on his jersey, revealing his lickable abs. Or making up odes to his butt.) And I certainly don’t need him to know how happily I’d give up any night to watch him play. Shannon put me on a strict limit of two games a month, and I’ve found it to be a good rule. “We might go to Kiki’s—gotta get in all the night swimming possible while the weather’s still good.”

Translation: I am not that interested in you and I’d sooner hang out with the same girls I do all day, every day, and also, I’ll be in a bikini.

“So, you’ll be in a bikini.”

I smile sweetly. “I guess that’s possible.”

“Suddenly I don’t wanna go to my game either.” That dimple appears again, and he turns and faces forward as Mr. Howard calls everyone to attention.

Okay, what the fuck is happening? I’ve spent three years of high school trying to get Chase’s attention, and that’s after God knows how many years of middle school when I never even bothered to try. And now he’s just … giving it up.

I really should’ve given a bigger tip for this haircut.

While Mr. Howard introduces himself for those who don’t know him (he taught me in freshman algebra), I slide my phone under my desk and open my ever-running group text with Shannon, Kiki Takayama, and Gia Peretti. Pool @ Kiki’s Fri night? Just us?

Shannon writes back almost immediately. Are you seriously pretending you don’t wanna go to Chase’s game on Fri?

Then, Good girl.

I have to go, Gia reminds us, followed by a megaphone emoji which, fair, seeing as she’s head cheerleader. When we were on the JV squad together freshman and sophomore year, we got reamed out if we missed games for anything short of an emergency. (Aaaand that’s why only one of us continued on to varsity.) Not that Gia would’ve skipped for anything short of landing in a full-body cast. The only thing that girl loves more than cheerleading is being a girlfriend. What about Hunter’s?

Missing Hunter Ferris’s annual First Party does seem like Stratford sacrilege, but come to think of it, I haven’t heard a word about it all day. His stupid posts about cabinets full of booze and the majesty of his hot tub usually take up my entire feed.