“Yeah, well, guess you don’t know me very well.” A snap of the hair elastic on the skin of her wrist echoes in the bathroom, and then the sink turns on.

“Ooookay.” I lean against the wall and cross my arms as I listen to her splash water on her face, then wind her hair back up into its usual knot with another snap. “I was just coming to check on you. I can go. But are you gonna tell me why you’re mad at me after I just cheered you on for hours?” I usually avoid conflict like the Whelans avoid PG-13 movies, but I just spent hours watching Jack kick some major ass out on the field. While I knew my congratulations fantasies were just that—fantasies—she felt comfortable enough to text me, so I expected a slightly warmer reception than this. “And spare me pretending you’re not. You’re way better at sports than you are at acting.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry we can’t all win Emmys for playing the role of ‘single girl flirting’ when we actually have boyfriends,” she snaps, and my gaze flies to hers without even registering that she’s still not dressed. It’s clear from the way she immediately winces that she did not mean to say that out loud.

But she did, and now it’s out there, and I have to either explain and apologize or deny, deny, deny.

Before I can make a choice, her voice gets even more acidic as she says, “Let me guess—you were not flirting.”

Now’s the time to say, “Of course I wasn’t flirting.” But even with her being a sweaty mess, cheeks burning so red that I’m not sure if it’s from exertion or embarrassment, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to touch someone this badly.

She was amazing out there. Amazing. She was fearless and strong and defiant and just thinking about it makes me stupid enough to say, “No, I definitely was.”

Her milk-chocolate eyes light on me, something between anger and surprise in them. I have an actual effect on this girl. This girl who just led a terrible football team to victory, who played her heart out even though no one gave her a second look, who’s probably strong enough to break me in two—she has a weak spot.

And it might be me.

She is definitely mine.

Fuck it.

“It’s complicated,” I say, stepping closer. I can’t tell her the whole truth, because it isn’t just mine, but I hope this will be enough. “Miguel and I. It’s complicated. But he knows I like girls; he’s good with it.”