The bleachers shake under my feet, vibrate my butt, which is freezing against the bare metal. The staccato drumbeats and the chatter of the growing crowd produce a swelling and ebbing cacophony. Game day. The whole school has turned out for the homecoming game, a showdown between the Seaview Vikings and Bay Town Tigers. Something about the crowd, the noise, the biting cold that forces my fingers into the middle pocket of my purple hoodie is contagious. Intoxicating. Cult leaders use this kind of energy to hook their followers. I half expect the cheerleaders to break for a faith healing at any moment. But, instead, they perform backflips and basket tosses while shrieking “GO VIKINGS!” They far eclipse the rival Tigers squad trying to rally the much smaller crowd from Bay Town in their green and yellow, which makes everyone look a bit jaundiced.

“FUCK YEAH, NATALIE!” Luke booms as she completes a killer-looking basket toss. He and Amber flank me, human space heaters at my side. As Luke rockets to his feet to further cheer our friends on, I gaze longingly at the cushion keeping him from freezing his butt off.

“We can steal it when he wanders off for his halftime hookup,” Amber cuts in wryly. “If it goes well enough, he won’t come back.”

“Hey, first, I can hear you. Second, halftime hookups are a time-honored tradition. And third, I’m not a total asshole. You can have my cushion, Cecelia. Do you want it?”

Unsure if it’s a trick question, I weigh my freezing behind against Luke’s good favor. My chilled derriere wins.

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the foam. A three-hour homecoming game is not the time to play martyr. Once I’m situated more comfortably, I angle toward Amber. “Are halftime hookups really a thing?” I try to covertly scan the field for Ben. I don’t see him. I do see Creepy Chris, however, whose eyes light up when he spots me. I pretend not to see his enthusiastic gesturing and focus my attention back on Amber.

“Uh, the cheerleaders use halftime to eat,” she says, “not make out, so it’s only a Luke thing, really. Why?”

“No reason,” I answer absentmindedly. My eyes are glued to the field. No dice catching Ben, but number 19 is in fine form. Gabriel’s hard to miss. My gaze keeps landing on him like a magnet. He’s not just quick, darting across the field, but he watches the ball with careful precision. He seems to anticipate where the other team will go before the whistle blows. I may know jack shit about football, but one thing is clear: Gabriel plays with skill. And it doesn’t hurt that his butt looks amazing in gold spandex pants.

“Suuuure,” Amber teases, and for a second I’m mortified she’s caught me ogling Bronte’s younger brother, but her focus is somewhere else entirely.