Jace turns toward Lincoln’s bench, revealing the number twelve and DAWSON printed across the back of his jersey. I would have known it was him just based on the familiar, confident stride.

It’s a strange sensation: sitting in a crowd of strangers, watching him. I’ve never been an anonymous face in a large audience before. Equally foreign is the chance to see the hero worship of Jace firsthand. Although I’m fully aware of his status on campus—even joked about it—it’s a wholly other thing to experience it. It’s a struggle to reconcile the star football player with the guy who made me stop running yesterday so he could tie my shoelace in the midst of the loud cheers now.

I watch him while he talks animatedly with the other green-clad players, clearly in his element, and realize it’s not just Jace’s looks or athletic ability that make him so magnetic. He’s pulled off his helmet and is now talking with one of the referees intently. There’s something intrinsic in Jace’s confidence; it permeates the air around him no matter what he’s doing.

“He’s the guy you collided with on the first day of the semester,” Katie whispers to me. “Remember?”

As if I could forget.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” I acknowledge instead, keeping my voice casual and detached.

“You ran into Jace Dawson? Literally?” Claudia asks.

I brace myself for disbelief or incredulity, but instead she chuckles. “Me, too.”

“What?” Katie and I ask in unison.

“Yeah, I literally bumped into him last spring when I was leaving the library. Highlight of my freshman year. He was walking in with a bunch of his teammates.”

“How am I just hearing this now?” Katie exclaims. She sounds offended, although it’s difficult to tell whether it’s genuine or not.

“Please, you were in your peak football player obsession period then. You would have grilled me for twenty minutes about the ten second interaction.”

Katie grins, unabashed. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

“What did he say when you bumped into him?” I ask, unable to help myself. “Was he rude?”

“Rude?” Claudia looks surprised by my question. “No, I don’t think he said anything at all. I apologized and then he just kept walking.”

“Huh,” I reply.

“Was he rude to you?” she asks.

“He was arrogant,” I reply.

“Keep watching the game, and you’ll see why.” She winks.

My gaze returns to the field. Names of positions and rules run through my head as I try to remember the intricacies of the game, but eventually I give up. I just sit there and absorb the electric atmosphere. Being incognito in a crowd is a novelty I’ll only get to enjoy for a couple more months, and I try to appreciate it while I sip on my now lukewarm coffee.

I attempt to take in the entire game, but my eyes refuse to leave number twelve for very long.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Hey! Hey! Blondie!” someone shouts behind me as I walk to the library the following Saturday afternoon. I turn to see a tall, lanky guy with shaggy hair jogging toward me on the deserted sidewalk.