I wonder if they’d be so excited for tonight—if people would be chanting the cheers under their breath without even realizing it, if they’d be pouring chocolate milk out in the cafeteria for Robbie, if they’d be yelling “Go Gators!” at every football player they pass in the hallway (even me, occasionally, if the person didn’t know better or get a good glimpse at the uniform)—if they knew their pathetic heroes were planning to throw the game to spite a girl.

God, I want to show them all so badly.

Another thing I really wanna do? Skip this farce of a pep rally, where I’ll not only undoubtedly be ignored again but forced to watch the girl I like be one of the people doing the ignoring. But I don’t wanna give anyone the satisfaction, so when the bell rings and the announcement ushers us toward the gym, I square my shoulders, push past everyone who’d rather pretend I didn’t exist, and go take my spot at the back of the line.

I expect the guys to avoid eye contact entirely, so I’m not prepared when they’re suddenly all smiles, holding up their hands for high fives and saying shit like “Heard Terry Lawrence is gonna be at the game—that’s awesome.” They’re nothing but snake-oil grins and obvious fronts, and you can tell which of them think they’re charming enough to pull it off.

Imagine Dan Sanchez thinking I believe there’s any friendliness behind that fist bump. Im-fucking-agine.

And still, I return it, because instinct. Because they’ll make it worse for me if I don’t, and yes, there is a “worse” in there somewhere. Because even if they’re built to give up, I’m not.

One by one, the players get called into the gym, names echoing in the air like they’re meant to be remembered, even if they won’t do anything to earn it. I wish my name could get buried in the middle, sandwiched between the applause of Matt Devlin and Lamar Burke, but the QB goes last, because in any other world, the QB is the star, the one you clap for the loudest.

I take a deep breath and let my mind float to the things that bring me peace. Lifting in my grungy little gym at home with the quiet buzz of grunting and clanking iron. Sage’s lemon meringue pie. Marathoning ESPN Classic when I’m sick. Looking up at the stars while listening to Hayley Kiyoko. Every single suit worn by Cate Blanchett in Ocean’s 8. Playing ball with Jeremy and Justin in the cul-de-sac.

The last one stings, but not as badly as it used to. They’ll have to forgive me when I return home and bring Mom with me. They’re my brothers. They have to.