Page 76 of Heart Check
27.HARPER
We head back out tothe lobby during the break, the crowd a little more subdued than when the game started. I stare up at the jerseys hanging above my table while I try to master the wave of emotions coursing through me.
I wouldn’t be here without Dawson. Not without him introducing me to Sabrina and the guys on the team, not without him helping me see the beauty in this sport. This is more visibility than I’ve gotten all year. I want to be relieved—want to celebrate—but I can’t. Not after that disastrous first period.
As much as I’m focused on getting a chance to talk to Dawson after the game, I have to admit that I’m actually invested in this game. Can they get it back together?
“I just want someone to win,” I moan to Sabrina and Marissa as we settle back behind our table. “I’m tired of being stressed!”
Sabrina pats my shoulder comfortingly. “There, there. I wish I could say you get used to it, but… welcome to being a sports fan. Your mental health now depends on a bunch of people hitting different sized balls back and forth.”
Luckily, we’re mobbed by fans inspecting the merchandise,so I have to banish my freak-out to the corner of my mind.
Before long, every other person who walks past is wearing one of my creations. It’s a good thing I have help selling them, because word of mouth travels fast.
My parents even turn up, dressed in matching Hamilton Lakes windbreakers, and I make them model some of my less popular items under the guise of giving them complimentary spirit wear. Gotta love a family discount.
Dad wears his repeatingHLs with delight, looking around with wide eyes. “Look at all this! We’re so proud of you, honey.”
“And glad you’re having some fun along the way.” Mom reaches out to pat my shoulder. “You don’t need to have your eye on the ballallthe time, you know.”
I definitely traumatized her with the aftermath of Ford-Explorer-gate. But she makes a point. I’m stressed, but finally it’s in a fun way? A good way?
“Yeah. I know.” I smile and wave them off. “Enjoy the game.”
“We’ll be cheering for forty-seven.” Dad winks. Mom giggles. I want to die.
“Oh look, more customers! Bye!”
As soon as they’re gone, I turn my attention back to the crowd, but the mere mention of Dawson has destroyed my flow state. All I want is to see him when this game ends, to tell him that I did it, just like I said I would.
And with any luck, to tell him I always knew he could too.
When I look up from the current onslaught of customers, Josie loiters at the edge of the crowd, lips pursed. Not the person I’d expect to show up to my merch table, given the way she withdrew her order after all the Coach Red rumors. Andthe vibes are not good—even the bow perched atop her head is stiff with indignation. The rest of the cheerleading squad flanks her, most of them clutching Styrofoam cups to warm up before they go back to the game.
“You’reselling spirit wear?” She snorts. “Why on earth would we buy from you? You hate the team. You’ve made no secret of it.”
I bite my lip. She’s right. And I have plenty of reasons to hate them still, after the way Noah talked to me. After what Dawson said.
But I can’t access the defensiveness that used to be right at the surface. I know Dawson said what he did because I hurt him—because he cares way more than I ever knew. It makes something ache behind my sternum. Josie has no idea.
Marissa snaps, “We’ve barely slept this week making these bracelets, okay?”
“So?” Josie props her hands on her hips. “It’s in your best interest. Doesn’t mean you actuallycare.”
I wave my hand dismissively, opening my mouth to protest. But her eyes light on my wrist, sparking with curiosity.
She grabs my hand before I can pull it back.
“Excuse me?” I splutter.
She doesn’t seem to hear. She’s twisting and turning my hand to catch the fluorescent lights. That’s when I realize she’s looking at the bracelet wrapped around it.
A gleam in her eyes, she looks back up at me. “Are you wearing his number?”
Everyone falls silent, hanging on my every word. Oh God. A few weeks ago, I’d barely wear blue to school on game day. Am I going to admit to being such a sap that I’m wearinga guy’s number on my wrist? Even worse: a number thatI made, like a sentimental friendship-bracelet-crafting simp?
But there’s not really any question. I tilt my head up defiantly. It’s second nature to jut my chin out defensively at the world. I’m just not usually defending Dawson.
