She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like she isn’t strong as hell for not just pushing through that but becoming a person whose job it is to exude joy. “The bright side is that his mom was so appalled by his shittiness that she writes me a big check every birthday, though that’ll probably stop now that he and his wife are expecting their second kid. So, you know. Fingers crossed for a winning lottery ticket or a miracle scholarship. Not sure which is more likely at this point.”

It takes me a few seconds to realize the stinging in my palms is the result of me digging my nails into them, making fists I wish I could take to this dude I’ve never even met. I loosen them, shake out my hands, and say, “You’re gonna get it. I know it. You’re the best one out there.”

“Oh yeah?” She grins, and there’s the tiniest dimple in her left cheek. “How closely were you watching the other girls?”

“What other girls?”

Now she laughs for real, and I wonder if she feels the same unraveling in her chest that I do. “Good answer.”

“I’ve been known to be mildly smooth in my time. And I mean, if you wanted to practice with, say, a cheer for a certain quarterback, I would be happy to offer some notes.”

“Oh, would you now?” Her blue-green eyes twinkle, and suddenly, she morphs right in front of me, adopting a perfect ramrod-straight cheer stance, lightly closed fists grasping fake pom-poms. “J-A-C-K Jack Jack Jack! She’s our favorite quarterback! Watch her throw and watch her score, then watch her come right back for more! Goooooo Jack!”

My jaw is on the floor as I watch her leap and jump and split and shout, for me, and good God this is the hottest thing anyone has ever done for me in my entire life. She finishes with her arms thrust in a V in the air and a huge smile on her face, and when she winks, it’s all I can do not to melt into the floor, leaving my black T-shirt and cutoff sweats behind.

“So, what’d you think?” she asks.

I can barely get words out, but I manage a few. “I think we should make out immediately.”

Her smile grows even wider, and she waves her fake pom-poms. “Go team!”

“Jesus H,” I mutter, but then my hands are grabbing for her overall straps and her cinnamon mouth finds mine and we somehow land in a pile on the couch.

Best.

Victory party.

Ever.