God, I’m feeling paranoid. But with Harper, paranoia might just be pattern recognition.
“Harper—”
“Can we just watch the fucking football game?” She crosses her arms over her chest while I grab the bags and tray of food from the table. “I’ve never been to one before.”
“How is that possible?”
She shrugs. “My team back home sucked. I just went to the field parties after.”
“Well, then you’ll have a lot of fun tonight. Our team is great. C’mon.”
She looks skeptical as I lead her into the stadium. I keep my eyes on her this time, though, to make sure she doesn’t do another runner and disappear again before we get to our seats.
My friends have saved us spots in the middle of the pack—prime real estate. When we sit down, I start making introductions. “Guys, this is Harper. Harper, meet Derek, Kevin, Miles, and Sara.”
I’m watching Harper’s face, trying to gauge her reaction. Will she like them? Will they like her? Does it matter?
Of course it matters. Everything about her matters, even when it shouldn’t.
“Food!” Kevin shouts, immediately lightening my load of several bags.
Harper snatches one of the paper trays with barbecue before anyone else can.
“Respect,” Sara says, laughing. “There’s never any of the good food left around these boys unless you grab it early. Here, come sit by me.”
Sara grabs Harper’s arm and pulls her to sit beside her, and I take a seat on Harper’s other side, by Kevin.
Sara immediately takes Harper under her wing, rolling her eyes at the guys when they start debating quarterback statistics. I feel something in my chest unclench. Good. This is good. Harper needs friends here. People who’ll give her a reason to stay.
Why am I so obsessed with making her stay?
The game starts, and Harper looks completely lost. She’s watching the field and the players like they’re alien life forms engaging in bizarre rituals. I definitely shouldn’t be finding it so adorable.
“It’s just a bunch of guys running up and down a field throwing a ball back and forth to each other,” she says after Westfield scores and everyone leaps wildly to their feet, screaming in triumph and losing their shit as is tradition at any Texas football game.
The horrified gasps from everyone around us would be funny if I weren’t so focused on Harper having a good time.
“Okay, we’re fixing this right now,” I say, turning to face her.
And then I start explaining enough so she can enjoy the game. She seems interested, really following, so I keep going, showing how every play is really a chess move and explaining how the game is about intelligence as much as athleticism.
She leans closer to hear me over the crowd, and suddenly I’m drowning in the smell of her—cherry blossoms and something uniquely Harper. Her shoulder presses against mine as she strains to see what I’m pointing at. I have to actively remind myself to keep breathing.
“Watch number fifty-four—the middle linebacker. See how he’s shifted four steps to the left?”
“Mmm hmm.” Her voice is distracted, breathy.
Three steps. I try to focus on the linebacker. “Thattells the quarterback they’re probably blitzing from the weak side.”
The play develops exactly as I predicted, and Harper’s eyes go wide. “How did you know that was going to happen?”
“Body language. Foot positioning. The way the safety is cheating up toward the line. It’s all information. If you know how to read it...”
I trail off because I’ve just realized how close we are. Close enough that I can see the amber flecks in her green eyes. Close enough that I’ve completely lost count of—what was I counting? The plays? The yards? My own heartbeats?
I can’t remember.
Harper’s proximity has scrambled every system I use to stay in control. The patterns, the counting, the rules—all of it just... gone. Static.