We didn’t talk much that night—mostly he focused on making me drink water and getting me safely to bed without my mom noticing (he failed miserably, getting me grounded from everything but cheerleading for a month). But we started chatting in the hallways, developing secret codes to discuss crushes. Then, once my grounding was lifted, we started hanging out for real. I learned the wonders of his mother Dania’s ropa vieja, Silvio Rodríguez’s music, and how to properly make Café Cubano, and he got introduced to my mom’s small but excellent queer lit collection, the glory of nail polish (which we always meticulously removed before he left), and homemade hash browns that are far superior to Maggie’s (even if he does insist on bringing his own hot sauce to eat them). When people started assuming we were a couple, we ran with it; it was the perfect cover. He’s been my rock ever since.

And as my rock, I really want him to stand up for the girl I was just thinking about kissing.

But he doesn’t know that I thought about kissing her. And while he’s very Team Get Amber Laid, I don’t think hooking up with the new QB and threatening to blow our cover is what he had in mind. As badly as I wanna tell him what went down tonight, part of me is nervous he’ll be pissed, and I don’t know what to do with that.

But, bless him, as if he could read my mind, he asks, “Where’s Walsh?”

The guys laugh. “Whoops,” Zach says with exaggerated slowness. “Guess her invite must’ve gotten lost.”

Don’t laugh with them, I pray in Miguel’s direction, wishing Cara wasn’t lying on me so I could reach over and squeeze his hand or something. Please be a decent human being and don’t laugh with them.

He does laugh, but only after he says, “Y’all are such dicks,” and I decide I’ll have to be satisfied with that.

He glances at me, as if waiting for me to build on his statement, and I’m embarrassed to realize I was expecting him to do more on Jack’s behalf than I’ve been willing to do myself. “Not very team building,” I manage, though I let it sound like a joke.

“Please, like you fine ladies wanna cheer for a girl.” Matt flexes his biceps, which are, admittedly, nice and sizable. “Not when you could be cheering for this.”

“You weren’t exactly next in line for QB1, Devlin,” Miguel says wryly, and I could kiss him, even while other guys throw chips in his direction, booing.

“That isn’t the point,” Matt says, just as Zach says, “It should’ve stayed Robbie.”