Page 17 of Home Field Advantage

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry we can’t all win Emmys for playing the role of ‘single girl flirting’ when we actually have boyfriends,” she snaps, and my gaze flies to hers without even registering that she’s still not dressed. It’s clear from the way she immediately winces that she didnotmean to say that out loud.

But she did, and now it’s out there, and I have to either explain and apologize or deny, deny, deny.

Before I can make a choice, her voice gets even more acidic as she says, “Let me guess—you werenotflirting.”

Now’s the time to say, “Of course I wasn’tflirting.” But even with her being a sweaty mess, cheeks burning so red that I’m not sure if it’s from exertion or embarrassment, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to touch someone this badly.

She was amazing out there.Amazing.She was fearless and strong and defiant and just thinking about it makes me stupid enough to say, “No, I definitely was.”

Her milk-chocolate eyes light on me, something between anger and surprise in them. I have an actual effect on this girl. This girl who just led a terrible football team to victory, who played her heart out even though no one gave her a secondlook, who’s probably strong enough to break me in two—she has a weak spot.

And it might be me.

She isdefinitelymine.

Fuck it.

“It’s complicated,” I say, stepping closer. I can’t tell her the whole truth, because it isn’t just mine, but I hope this will be enough. “Miguel and I. It’s complicated. But he knows I like girls; he’s good with it.”

“Congrats on having a boyfriend who manages the basic task of not being biphobic.” Her face is returning to its normal tan, and she throws on a tank top from her bag, which helps sharpen my focus a little bit—enough to realize I haven’t been clear enough.

“No, I mean, we’re not…exclusive, I guess, is the word. Not that anyone else knows that, but.” Jesus, I sound like a creep.

“Oh wow, okay, so he’s cool with you having a sidepiece as long as he gets to watch, or something? Got it. So glad we had this conversation. Can you please get out now so I can finish changing?”

It’s my turn to wince, feeling every ounce of the implication that she won’t change in front of me. I know she’s queer herself andmyqueerness isn’t why she’s talking like I’m some kind of predator, but somehow, in a locker room context, the fear you’ll be called out for watching a girl change never quite goes away, even if you would never in a million years.

She must get it too, because for a second, her face softens, but no apology comes, and I can’t blame her.

But I also can’t leave, not while she thinks this about me and Miguel. “Our relationship is fake,” I blurt out, even though it’s far more information than I want to give. “I got tired of constantly making stuff up to turn down guys, and Miguel…” I fumble for a second, then pull something out of my ass, uttering a silent apology to Miguel’s extremely cool mother, Dania, whom I love dearly and who makes me the most delicious flan this side of the gulf for my birthday. “His parents are really strict, and they don’t want him screwing around. Having a serious girlfriend keeps their eyes off him, so this was our solution. And it works. Except…”

“Except?”

I don’t even realize how much closer I’ve moved until I inhale the scent of grass and earth mingled with baby wipes. “Except that I cannot stop thinking about how cute you look in glasses.”

Finally,finally, her defenses fall away and the shoulders she’d been tensing up to her earlobes relax. “Oh.”

“And I mean, you know what they say about cheerleaders and quarterbacks.”

Her lips curve in the slightest of smiles. “You know, somehow I don’t think that’s something they’re saying at Atherton these days.”

Well, maybe they should, I think but don’t say.

I am thinking a lot of things I’m not saying right now, most of which revolve around her mouth.

I definitely should not say any of those things.

Right?

I’m still contemplatingwhatto say when she gives a little awkward laugh and says, “Sorry, I really do need to change. I don’t trust them not to leave without me. Plus, I’m gross.”

“You’re not gross,” I say automatically. “Well, you kinda are, but in a tough way. Very sporty.”

She grins. “You should probably go too, but… maybe I’ll see you later?”

“That window of yours still open?”

“Might be.”

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