Page 66 of The Wrong Play

The fact that Emma had done something weird again had also been motivating in accepting any excuse to get out of the room.

Yesterday morning, I had woken up to find her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, completely still, just staring at me again. Not blinking. Not moving. Just watching.

When I finally sat up, groggy and thoroughly creeped out, she smiled—an eerie, slow stretch of her lips—and whispered, “I counted how many times you stopped breathing in your sleep.”

I had bolted out of bed so fast I nearly tripped.

So yeah, maybe I didn’t have a future as a sorority girl, but getting out of my dorm, away from Emma and her unsettling midnight activities, seemed like the right call.

If I was honest with myself, though…

I wanted to see him. Even from far off. It had been two days, but no amount of reasoning, no stern self-lectures, had made the ache in my chest go away.

Two days since his brown eyes had locked on mine, all heat and fight, since his voice, low and rough, had cut through me like a blade. Two days since I’d let the past dictate my future.

Two days…

And now? Now, I was craving him, like a starving woman desperate for a taste, even though I knew how it would end. It was pathetic. Stalkerish, even. I’d been the one to run, and here I was, creeping back for a peek through the crack.

I groaned, loud and dramatic, grabbing my small purse off the bed and storming out before I could talk myself into staying. The air outside hit me cool and sharp, late October crispness cutting through the humidity, and I shoved my hands in my jeans pockets, trudging toward the stadium. My sneakers scuffed the pavement, each step a little heavier, my stomach twisting tighter the closer I got. I could hear the crowd already—distant roars, chants bleeding through the trees—and my pulse kicked up, a quick thud against my ribs.

Tasha was waiting by the gate, bouncing on her toes like a cheerleader, her dark ponytail swinging and an orange T on hercheek as she waved me over. “I thought you were gonna flake again, St. James,” she teased, linking her arm through mine before I could dodge, her grip firm and annoyingly chipper.

“I almost did,” I admitted, letting her pull me toward the entrance, my sneakers dragging like I could slow this whole thing down. My eyes darted around—orange jerseys everywhere, drunk guys yelling, girls in glittery makeup giggling past us—and once again I felt like a fish out of water, flopping in the chaos.

She laughed, bright and unbothered, her eyes glinting with that sorority-girl shine I’d never get. “That’s ’cause you don’t know how good these games are yet. You’re gonna love it—promise. But first—” She stopped, digging into the little pouch slung over her shoulder, pulling out a sponge and a tube of thick orange paint. “Face paint.”

I blinked, stepping back like she’d pulled a knife. “Wait—what?”

“For school spirit, duh,” she said, already dabbing the sponge into the paint, the stuff oozing like tar. She gestured for me to lean down, her grin wide and relentless. “C’mon, sweetcheeks—don’t be a buzzkill.”

Her calling me something ridiculous reminded me of Jace. Ugh.

I sighed, loudly, but bent anyway, feeling the cool, wet stroke of the sponge as she pressed it to my left cheek. It tickled, the paint cold against my skin, and I scrunched my nose, holding still while she worked. “What are you putting on me?” I mumbled.

“Perfection,” she said vaguely, stepping back, admiring her work like I was a canvas instead of a human being. She held up her phone to show me the sorority symbol—a sharp, swoopy theta thing—staring back at me from her camera. Then she winked…suspiciously, and said, “One more thing.”

Before I could open my mouth to protest, she was at it again, the sponge swiping across my right cheek, quick and deliberate. Her grin turned smug, all too pleased with herself, and my stomach did a slow, uneasy flip. “Tasha,” I said, voice low, warning, “what are you doing?”

She smirked, flipping her phone around again, the front camera flashing my reflection back at me.

I nearly choked. There—clear as day, bold and orange—was Jace’s number. The77scrawled across my right cheek was like a neon sign screaming my stupid, secret obsession.

“Tasha—” I started, my voice climbing as my hand flew up to scrub it off. The paint was already drying, though, sticking like glue.

“Relax,” she giggled, grabbing my wrist to stop me, her nails digging in just enough to hold me still. “It’s just a number. Besides, you like him.”

“I do not—” I spluttered, heat rushing to my face, my free hand flapping like I could wave the lie away. “That’s not—I’m not?—”

“Then why are you here?” She cut in, arching a brow, her voice all knowing, like she’d caught me red-handed.

I opened my mouth. Shut it. Opened it again, fumbling for something—anything—that wasn’t the truth. “I—I’m checking out your sisterhood thing,” I finally said lamely, crossing my arms tight over my chest, glaring at her like it’d make her drop it.

“Uh-huh,” she said, smirking wider, dragging me through the gate before I could bolt. “Sure, Riley. It’s fine—no one’ll even notice.”

For a dumb, fleeting second, I let myself buy it. I told myself one little number didn’t mean anything, that I could slip into the crowd, watch from a safe distance, get my fix of Jace without him ever knowing I was there. Just a glimpse—his broad shoulders under the pads, that cocky grin flashing through the helmet—then I’d be gone, back to my room, back to pretending I didn’t care.

Until we got to our seats.

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