Page 18 of Home Field Advantage

I match her smile with one of my own. “Well, then, you ‘might’ see me later.”

It feels extremely wrong to go from the game straight to a victory party that doesn’t include the obvious MVP, who also happens to be the girl I was just thinking about maybe kissing. But if I learned anything from Midnight Breakfast, it’s that forcing it won’t do anyone any favors. Still, when I show up to Zach Sawyer’s house with my brain still buzzing a bus ride and a quick change at home later, I expect the team to have turned a corner on Jack, seeing as she’s glaringlyresponsible for their huge win. But once again, I was expecting too much.

“Did you hear Coach? ‘Great job, Walsh.’ Like she could’ve done shit without Sawyer and Woods on everyone’s asses to make sure she didn’t break a nail.” Dan’s already mid-tirade—and mid-Heineken—when I show up. “Pathetic.”

What’s pathetic is you acting like that’s not their literal jobs on the field, I wait for someone to say. But nobody does. Definitely not me.

I should say it.

But I don’t.

“Man, this victory would’ve been so much sweeter with Robbie,” Zach says mournfully. Everyone murmurs in agreement, no one pointing out that the victory wouldn’t havehappenedwith Robbie.

“We should pour one out for him,” Lamar says somberly.

“If you pour one out on my mom’s fucking rug, I will fucking kill you,” Zach snaps, which of course sets the guys off. They all take turns pretending to pour their beers out, pulling them up at the last minute, while Zach’s girlfriend, Mia, squeals and he glowers.

“Even community college guys are gonna be better than this, right?” Cara rests her head on my shoulder with a sigh, the smell of her vanilla body spray strong in my nostrils.

“Here’s hoping,” Not that it’s a guy occupying my brain, but I link pinkies with Cara in our traditional “make a wish”move anyway. Game nights are the only Friday nights Cara’s exempt from spending with her family, and it’s strictly because football players and cheerleaders are so revered in this town that Pastor Whelan’s congregation loves that his daughter is on the squad, skimpy skirt and all. I know full well he’ll rope blessing the Alligators into his donation collection on Sunday, and Cara will be there in one of her church-perfect pink or white or yellow or baby-blue dresses.

But right here, right now, she’s the version of herself that gets just as high on flying through the air and being cheered on under the lights as I do, the version who sang along to Camila Cabello with me on the way here, who sneaked me a pouch of her little sister’s fruit snacks that she knows I love, and who’s helping bring me back to myself after one of the most confusing weeks I can ever remember.

Speaking of friends who help me feel normal. “Miggy!” the guys yell as Miguel lets himself in, having dropped off his parents and sister before taking the family car. Miguel is a permanent designated driver—alcohol gives him migraines—which is actually how we became friends. I got stupid drunk at a party as a freshman who had no idea what she could hold, and he was the valiant and newly licensed sophomore who drove me home. It was only because he thought I was passed out plastered in his back seat that he had a brief conversation with his secret then-boyfriend on speakerphone, and I was so relieved to find another queer kid at Atherton that I drunkenly blurted out that I was gay too. (No one had introduced me tothe sexuality spectrum yet. I had, however, been introduced to Diana’s cousin Mariana’s lips in the coatroom at Diana’s quinceañera.)

We didn’t talk much that night—mostly he focused on making me drink water and getting me safely to bed without my mom noticing (he failed miserably, getting me grounded from everything but cheerleading for a month). But we started chatting in the hallways, developing secret codes to discuss crushes. Then, once my grounding was lifted, we started hanging out for real. I learned the wonders of his mother Dania’s ropa vieja, Silvio Rodríguez’s music, and how to properly make Café Cubano, and he got introduced to my mom’s small but excellent queer lit collection, the glory of nail polish (which we always meticulously removed before he left), and homemade hash browns that are far superior to Maggie’s (even if he does insist on bringing his own hot sauce to eat them). When people started assuming we were a couple, we ran with it; it was the perfect cover. He’s been my rock ever since.

And as my rock, I really want him to stand up for the girl I was just thinking about kissing.

But he doesn’t know that I thought about kissing her. And while he’s very Team Get Amber Laid, I don’t think hooking up with the new QB and threatening to blow our cover is what he had in mind. As badly as I wanna tell him what went down tonight, part of me is nervous he’ll be pissed, and I don’t know what to do with that.

But, bless him, as if he could read my mind, he asks, “Where’s Walsh?”

The guys laugh. “Whoops,” Zach says with exaggerated slowness. “Guess her invite must’ve gotten lost.”

Don’t laugh with them, I pray in Miguel’s direction, wishing Cara wasn’t lying on me so I could reach over and squeeze his hand or something.Please be a decent human being and don’t laugh with them.

He does laugh, but only after he says, “Y’all are such dicks,” and I decide I’ll have to be satisfied with that.

He glances at me, as if waiting for me to build on his statement, and I’m embarrassed to realize I was expecting him to do more on Jack’s behalf than I’ve been willing to do myself. “Not very team building,” I manage, though I let it sound like a joke.

“Please, like you fine ladies wanna cheer for a girl.” Matt flexes his biceps, which are, admittedly, nice and sizable. “Not when you could be cheering for this.”

“You weren’t exactly next in line for QB1, Devlin,” Miguel says wryly, and I could kiss him, even while other guys throw chips in his direction, booing.

“That isn’t the point,” Matt says, just as Zach says, “It should’ve stayed Robbie.”

“It’sRobbie’sfault it wasn’t Robbie,” someone blurts out, and oh crap, that was me. “Y’all keep acting like Jack stole something from him, but—”

Cool air rushes to my skin as Cara shoves away from me,and Miguel immediately swoops in. “Clearly someone’s had enough to drink,” he says as he pulls me to my feet. “Just how I like ’em,” he adds with a wink.

Thank God, his gross humor actually works and a few people laugh, failing to notice I haven’t even opened the can in my hand, while a few others—including Cara—stare at me in horror. I’ve taken their lord’s name in vain, apparently. Which is ridiculous, because I haven’t said a single word that isn’t true, but no one’s ready to talk about that yet. And Jack being quarterback has given them yet another excuse to avoid it. Because it’s so much easier to channel their anger at her than it is to get pissed at their friend for drinking and driving.

This is the Atherton Alligators’ grieving process, and God help anyone who tries to disrupt it.

Miguel’s hand on my back steers me into Zach’s yard, and he automatically drapes his varsity jacket over my shoulders as soon as we find a quiet corner. “Loud—”

“I know.” I blow air into the cool wind through pursed lips, wishing it were chilly enough outside for it to curl into smoky vapor and let me feel like I’m setting something free. “They’re still in their state of Robbie delusion. I know.”

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