I told him to meet me outside, mostly so that Eric and Claire wouldn’t see us. I think back to that look Claire gave me, and remember how Sarah texted five different girls about my status right after I told her. Sarah ruined our relationship when she told my secret. But Claire and I barely speak, so she has nothing to lose by terrorizing me.

Miles appears next to me, grabbing my hand.

“Hey,” he says, sweat running down his brow. We ran sets today, and it looks like he did the bulk of the heavy lifting. “I guess you’re ready to meet the guys?”

Oh yeah. That.

Normally, I don’t worry about making a good first impression. I figure it just happens or it doesn’t. The first time I met Sarah was as normal as possible. She was the upperclassman who took me on a tour of my old school before I started. I didn’t expect her to be completely horrible, but hey, it just goes to show.

But these are Miles’s friends. I like Miles. I want his friends to like me or, at the very least, tolerate me.

“You look so freaked out,” Miles says at my silence, shaking his head. “Don’t be. It’s not a big deal.”

“Maybe not to you,” I mumble, shrugging out of his hoodie. He’s not the one meeting anyone new. If his teammates hate me, will he look at me differently? It should only take five minutes to meet them; all I have to do is smile and wave. I press my lips together and shove my hands into my pockets.

Outside, there are already players on the field. My eyes are drawn to number twenty-four. There’s something graceful about the way he plays, running in between other players and cradling the ball. Then he crashes into another guy and the spell is broken.

I open my mouth to say something else, but shut it as a boy jogs over. He pulls the sweatshirt from Miles, staring at him with a stupid grin.

“Ooooh, is this the lucky hoodie? I bet it still smells like her,” he teases, glancing over at me. “Is that why you let her borrow it?”

“Shut up,” Miles says, shoving him. “The last time I tell you anything, I swear to God.”

The guy grins at me, and I snort. It’s nice to know that guys aren’t so different from my friends and me. Miles grabs the hoodie, turning back around.

“Here.” He holds the sweatshirt toward me. “It’s lucky.”

“Because it smells like me?” I bat my eyelashes. “What do I smell like, Miles?”

He rubs the back of his neck, like he’s embarrassed. When he steps ahead of me, I hold the fabric up to my nose. His scent is still there—deodorant and sweat and something warm, like wood.