After a week full of weirdness, I manage to pull myself out of it in time for Chase’s game Friday night and our subsequent date. Granted, it takes some pushing from Shannon to get me fully decked out in fangirl paint, from Chase’s number 14 boldly drawn on my face in blue to “Go Chase” scrawled down my arms. But I look pretty cute with it, and judging by the way Chase’s face lights up when he sees me, he agrees.

Next to me, Shannon’s forgone face paint in favor of a pro-Lucas sign, and she keeps whacking me in the face, but I don’t care. Chase is having one of the best games I’ve ever seen, and we spend a decent portion of the evening on our feet, cheering as he completes pass after pass, his arm finding its targets with terrifying accuracy.

On any given day, he’s good, but this is next-level. If there’s a scout hiding somewhere at this game, Chase is getting a scholarship for sure.

“He’s so fucking hot,” the girl in front of us whispers to her friend as Chase accepts a high five from Lucas after rushing the ball halfway down the field before getting slammed to the ground, and I feel my cheeks heat with pride. The Stratford rumor mill definitely hasn’t missed that there’s something between us, even if there’s only been one real date. He may not be mine in the way Tommy is Gia’s, but it’s enough for me to get the feeling that comes with knowing pretty much every girl in the room would kill to be you.

“Larissa Bogdan is such a lucky bitch,” the friend whispers back as if to prove my point, and I nearly break my nasal passages holding back a snort.

Shannon is unconcerned with being discreet. “He’s the lucky one, actually,” she leans forward and says, “and I’m the only one who gets to call her a bitch.”

The girls, who can’t be older than sophomores, look like they’re gonna pee in their tight jeans when they turn around and see us there. I can tell the girl who called me a lucky bitch wants to say she’s sorry, but she’s having trouble getting words out.

I elbow Shannon in the side and she laughs. “I am lucky,” I say before the girl can cry or whatever. “He’s great, isn’t he?”

Two jerky puppet nods in response, and then there’s a roar from the crowd and we look up to see Chase has thrown for another touchdown. “That’s number three for the Saints!” brings us all to our feet. “Chase Harding is on fire tonight!”