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“I don’t follow for follow,” I say with a shrug. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head and moves on to the room where guys who stan the gym get really hyped, bouncing off platforms and whipping ropes around to hide how fragile their masculinity is. He jumps onto a platform and off it. Repeat repeat repeat.

“Do you know anything about your competition?” I ask. “The other players?”

“I didn’t really get to know them before the competitions because at the first one I was watching Mara, and then at the second I was watching your friendship with Corrine implode.” I glare at him. “I pretty much only know the names that are on the website. The fun facts and submissions posted there.”

“From their names, who do you think is going to be the hardest to beat?”

He laughs. “Uh. Lada. That’s like Russian or something. I don’t think I stand a chance against Lada.”

“Maybe Lada sees your name on the website and thinks the same thing.”

“No, she probably sees my name and says, ‘Oh, he’s that kid who cried until they disqualified the other guy.’”

“You didn’t cry.”

He leans in and whispers, his breath dancing across my nose, “On the inside, I did.”

“And what’s your fun fact on the site?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t check? Wouldn’t that have been part of your documentary homework? Documentary 101?”

“I did check.” But I want to hear him say it. “Use a full sentence.”

Sighing, he mumbles, “I know every word to Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe.’”

I hold back my laughter as best as I can. “When was the last time you even listened to that? My eighth birthday party?”

“Yeah, probably, but since I know it by heart, it pops into my head all the time. When I’m taking tests, when I’m driving, when I’m trying to fall asleep; it’s justI threw a wish in the well, don’t ask me, I’ll never tell—”

“Stop. Don’t. It’ll get stuck in my head, too.”

“I looked to you as it fell, and now you’re in my way,” he finishes with passion, mussing up my hair.

I pull away and fix my hair, eyeing the piece of equipment he’s moved to now. “Don’t you think this workout is just going to make you sore?”

“You think soreness will last a week?”

“Depends how frequently you work out. How frequently do you work out, Holden Michaels?”

“You really need to improve your internet stalking because I post gym selfies all the time.” He flexes jokingly, but it’s not a joke. Because there’s a muscle there. It’s not huge or rippling or whatever, but it’s enough to make me realize that, even when he’s not flexing, there’s some definition in his arms, it’s just kind of hidden by his T-shirt sleeves.

“Huh.” I lean in a little closer, widening my eyes. “I guess if I had a magnifying glass or something—”

“You’resofunny,” he says, lightly pushing me away.

We wrap up around eleven thirty and head into the parking lot together, the autumn chill cooling our heated skin.

“Hold on a second,” he says, lifting one long finger to pause me by my car—tonight was one of those random nights my mom didn’t have to work. He runs to the minivan, parked a few spaces away, and comes back while I deposit my camera onto the passenger seat.

“It turns out they don’t make the old light-up shoes in my preferred style, so—” He shrugs. “This’ll have to do. Just know it’s the thought that counts.”

I accept what he offers me: a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, cool to the touch from sitting out in the cold. Just like when we were kids.

“I’ll text you about New York.” He smiles down at me, proud of himself for rendering me speechless. “Night, Saine.”

And then he leaves me standing there, the bag crushed in my nearly shaking hand, a bunch of emotions swirling in my gut that I dare not feel, dare not evenlookat, for fear that I’ll fall apart in this empty parking lot.