And it clicks that she had something to do with this. I don’t know what. I don’t know how. But I know with every cell of the blood pumping through my veins that the girl who pulverized my heart is doing everything in her power to put it back together.

I glance at the team, and they look pissed … except for Santiago, who absolutely cannot keep the goofy smile off his face when he catches my eye. He finally wipes it clean when Sanchez spies it and glares at him, but he winks one last time, and I wink back.

Maybe we can’t win, but we can sure make the people who are here for us proud.

And that is what I’m gonna fucking do.

We huddle up and Coach gives us the usual—fight hard, do your best, make Atherton proud. Miguel and I exchange another glance, just to confirm we’re going ahead with our plans, and we break. But before we can get into formation, while the cheerleaders are still riling up the crowd, Coach says, “Walsh, c’mere a minute.”

My heart freezes up and I worry he caught that one glance, that somehow he knows everything about what we have planned. But all he says is, “Big game for you tonight.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“You feeling ready?”

Am I feeling ready? I would be, if it were a normal game. If all I had to do was play and let my hands do the work. But that’s not what I’m up against tonight.

Does he know that?

“I’m feeling really grateful for the opportunity,” is what I say. “And that so many friends and family showed up.” Fuck it. “I’ve really been missing that support.”

He nods gruffly. “You’re a good player, Walsh. You are.”

“With all due respect, sir,” I bite out, “I know that. And I know this was my one shot to play and I’m grateful for it. But this isn’t what it should be. And I don’t know”—I cut myself off before I can say “what you expected out of bringing me here,” because that skirts way too close to talk of illegal recruitment—“what I expected when I came here,” I say instead, “but this hasn’t been what I signed on for.” Deep breath. “And I don’t know if I want to keep doing it.”