Holden is the first player to walk out of the locker room, with wet hair and a serious expression. It seems like he rushed, and I suddenly can’t think of anything else besides the four words he scrawled on that last page. I don’t need to ask to know when he wrote them.

“Hey.” He stops at the edge of the bleachers, his grip tight on his gym bag.

“Good game,” I say.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He kicks the edge of the bleachers. Exhales. “You read it?”

“Yeah.” That’s all I say. I’m not sure what else to. I can’t keep up with how I feel about Holden.

I know there’s love—a lot of it. That’s why everything else is so amplified. Why, when he hurts me, it feels like my heart is being squeezed too tight. Why, when he kisses or touches me, it feels like the sweetest euphoria. He’s the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Only a masochist would willingly accept that exquisite torture.

But maybe I am one.

Maybe he made me one.

I stare at him, memorizing every detail. The letterman jacket he’s wearing with his jeans. The way his brown hair is mussed, like he’s been running a hand through it. The bob of his Adam’s apple.

“You hungry?” He sounds nervous and uncertain—two adjectives I’d never associate with Holden Adams normally.

“Starving,” I admit.

“We could go to Fellini’s?”

Fellini’s is where everyone will be headed, and he knows it. The two of us showing up there—together—would be a statement. One I’m shocked he’s willing to make.

I fiddle with the strap of my backpack and then force myself to say exactly what I’m thinking. “I’ve always been here, Holden. Waiting. For years. You ignored me for years. Why should I believe you’ve cared all along? About any of it? What happens the next time you’re angry or upset? The next time you tell me I’m just a fuck who means nothing to you?”

He winces. “I was drunk and pissed. It’s not an excuse. It’s just how I felt. My dad…it was a lot.”

“I know.” I manage to say, through a thick throat.