Even now, I’m thinking about texting her, seeing if she’s up for company. Is that pathetic? It might be pathetic. Besides, I have to keep up my GPA to hold my spot on the team, and I’m thinking Cheer Princess and I aren’t gonna get much studying done if I hightail it over there now.

Fucking responsibilities.

I give my shoulders a few rotations to help loosen the frustration that’s been building for the last hour and get behind the wheel. I’m about to pull out of the lot when I spot a familiar figure standing a few feet off in the distance, alternately looking down at his phone and looking up for a ride that seems to be very, very late.

If it were anyone on the football team other than Miguel Santiago, I’d probably floor it out of there, but he still seems like my best shot at getting a little human decency on the field. And so, I stick my head out the window. “Santiago! Need a lift?”

He startles, I guess too absorbed in his phone to realize there was still a car in the lot. Judging by his muttered “mierda,” he’s not too pleased to discover that he’s not alone, and even less pleased to discover I’m the person talking to him. He walks over slowly, still darting glances at the entrance to the parking lot. “Hey, Walsh. I’m, uh—no. Someone’s coming to get me, thanks.”

Judging from his frown when he glances back at his phone, he’s not feeling too confident about that, and there’s a layer of subtle agony there that suggests he’s being stood up. “You sure? You can always text them and tell them you’ve got a ride.”

He’s still hesitating, and I’m starting to get antsy to pull away from the building. “How late are they?” I press gently.

“It’s just some traffic,” he grunts. “Don’t worry about it. You can go. You should go.”

“Cool, so, even the one guy on the team who hasn’t been a complete asshole to me won’t get in my car when he’s been stranded. Good to know.” The words roll out of my mouth before I can give them a second thought and land with a splat on the pavement between us. “Go Alligators.”

I rev the engine and back out of my spot, but reluctantly stop shy of pulling out of the lot when I see Miguel vehemently shaking his head. “It’s not that,” I hear when the sound of the engine dies down. “I swear. It’s—it’s not that.”