Page 40 of Sunshine

Sunshine.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THEN

In the week before the state championship, Coach West adds morning practice alongside our normal afternoon ones. There’s a swell of collective nerves that knocks many girls off their game, and Coach grows increasingly annoyed by it.

“Do you understand how important this moment is for us?” she screeches from the middle of the gymnasium as we all circle around her. “It’s not the time for sloppiness. It’s not the time for weakness. We are Mustangs, and we will beperfecton that field, do you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am!” we all cry out from dry mouths, parched from running suicides after another flyer fell too early during our halftime rehearsal.

As is tradition, the state championship game is being hosted at AT&T Stadium in Arlington, and the cheer squads from both sides will be given the fieldfor a twelve-minute performance. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime to perform for an NFL stadium full of people—it should feel like a dream come true.

Except I can hardly focus on any of it because I’m too wrapped up in Jason’s nerves.

The boys are playing against the Mayfield Matadors for the title—the one team we’ve lost to this season in the game Jason threw an interception that led to them winning. Both of our teams currently stand with 13-1 records, and while it helps to know that we beat the one team they lost to, it doesn’t erase the fact that they’ve already beaten us.

Jason made numerous mistakes in that game, most of them small enough that they shouldn’t have been such a big deal. But combined, the result was crushing. We lost our winning streak, and Jason blamed himself. Knowing the Mustangs have to face them again in the biggest game of the season hasn’t been easy, but in the last couple of days, Jason’s degree of tailspin has gone from bad to catastrophic.

On Wednesday he showed up to school late after running drills in his backyard all morning and earned himself a detention from his history teacher. Mr. Laurier might be the only person in this school brave enough to pull something like that against our star quarterback during the most important week of the year. Luckily, Jay was able to talk the principal into dropping it so that he could make it to practice on time.

On Thursday afternoon the cheer team worked on painting signs in the bleachers while the football team practiced, and I couldn’t help but notice that Jason was having a hard time throwing the ball to his target. The whole team was growing more and more impatient with him, and by the end ofpractice, Coach Andersen looked ready to send him back to the bench.

“He won’treallybench you, right?” I asked him later as we walked to his car.

He shook his head. “Nah, it’s too late to pull a change in the starting lineup now.” But for as convincing as he made the sentiment sound, the expression on his face was a dead giveaway to the anxiety he was feeling.

Wells clapped him on the shoulder with one of his rare toothy smiles. “Jaybird, you have to relax, okay? You’ve got this in the bag. You’re the fucking star of the school, and you’re going to showeverybodyjust how talented you are when we get on that field on Saturday.”

Jason blew out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing for the first time all week. “I just get so nervous,” he admitted.

Wells shrugged. “We all do. But you’re Jason fucking Moore—that trophy is as good as ours.” He gave Jason one last nudge on the arm before pivoting to his truck parked two rows over.

The words seemed to settle the tension blazing through him in the moment, but by Friday morning he was wound so tight again I thought he might spontaneously combust.

It was the day before the big game, and the cheerleaders planned Operation Mustang Pride to show our support for each player. I was assigned to bring a treat for Jason (naturally) and spent the evening before baking my grandma’s famous chocolate chip cookies with Annie.

When I found him at his locker, I presented him with the Tupperware, the brightest smile I could muster on my lips. “Surprise!”

Jason turned to look at me, confusion rippling across his face as his eyes dropped to the burgundy plastic lid. “Oh,” he said through a sigh. “What’s this?”

“Cookies,” I explained, already feeling like it might have been a mistake.

He looked . . . unsure of what to do with them. I was about to explain that they were for eating, but then he spoke again. “Thanks, babe. I just . . . I’m not sure sweets are a good idea right now. At least not until we get past the game. But save some for me?” he asked, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek and turning to walk away, leaving me standing alone with a quart-sized container of homemade cookies.

It wasn’t his explanation that had my nerves spiking—it was the complete disregard for the time spent on something thoughtful for him. It was the first time in our four months of dating that I felt . . . dismissed. But I knew he was feeling the pressure of it all, that he was caught up in the web of his own mind, so I did my best to shake the whole thing off.

But it still stung.

The disappointment still nips at me now as I sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor of Hoa’s living room, surrounded by a handful of other cheerleaders who are here for a sleepover. I watch as they pass around the container and eagerly pull out pieces for themselves.

“These aresogood,” Lizzie exclaims as she licks a smear of chocolate off her fingertips.

David nods enthusiastically. “You’ve been holding out on us, freshy. You’re gonna give Luna at the bakery a run for her money.”

I smile. “It’s my grandma’s recipe.”

“Jason didn’t want them?” Regan asks, eyes narrowed asshe realizes what it means thatweare eating the cookies. I’d sent her a picture of them fresh out of the oven, so she knew what—who—they were meant for.

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