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“Well, I guess we know which number he’s wearing now,” she says.

The game begins and we spend the first half dutifully cheering on Andrew and chatting with my parents. They seem determined to include Kashvi as much as possible, which means asking her a thousand questions. It’s embarrassing, but I also learn things about her parents and family that I never thought to ask before.

Andrew’s team scores another goal and Kashvi shoots up to her feet to cheer, along with my parents. I stand before Mom can glare at me for being a bad sport.

“Wow, that was a great play,” Kashvi says, and gives a littleyell.

“Yeah.”

“Your brother must be really good if he’s playing forward.”

I study her profile. How does she know what position he plays?Idon’t know that, and I’ve watched countless games over the years. I follow her gaze back down to the field and try to really pay attention. It still looks like a lot of guys running randomly around a field, but Andrew does stand out from the others. I bet he’ll make varsity next fall.

Andrew kicks toward the goal, but another player is quick to knock it away. Kashvi groans and sits back down.

“I didn’t realize you were so into soccer.”

She shrugs. “My dad is a huge fan. I grew up watching it on TV.”

By the time the second half begins, it’s hard for me to focus on the game. Especially when Andrew’s team is up 5–0. Kashvi hands me a small bag of peanuts Mom brought with her. “Do you come to a lot of these games?” she asks. “This one is—”

“Boring?”

She laughs. “I was going to say a blowout, but sure.”

My phone vibrates and I pull it out to see a text from Logan. It’s not to the group chat, but just to me. My stomach jumps into my throat.

Logan:I was going through my dice tonight and thought you might be able to do something with these.

He sends a photo of a set of seven glittery green dice. My heart swells at the same time that I laugh.

Quinn:Those are some sparkly dice you have there.

Logan:They were for a character, don’t ask.

I stare down at the photo, trying to puzzle out what to make of it. He made it clear that he left Kashvi’s early becauseof me, but now he’s texting me? Although I guess texting is very different from hanging out together. Or, who knows, maybe he just really doesn’t want these dice anymore.

“Those are cute,” Kashvi says, glancing at the photo on my phone.

I startle and sit up straight. “Logan just sent this. It sounds like he wants to give them to me.”

“He does?” Kashvi’s eyebrows furrow. “He’s always been weirdly protective over his dice. Almost as bad as Mark.”

“He noticed the bracelets we made—ourawesomebracelets, that is”—I jangle the bracelets on my wrist for effect—“and must have decided to help out the cause.”

“Huh…well, that’s cool of him because those are beautiful dice.” She checks her phone. “I’m surprised he didn’t text us both about it, though.”

There’s a flash of something in her expression. Maybe it’s surprise. Or could it be jealousy? Immediately the gnawing hurt over losing Paige returns. Even before my infamous bad date with Caden, Paige was always bothered if I talked too much to Caden at the games or had jokes or conversations with the others that she wasn’t part of. I didn’t mind it at the time. It almost made me feel special, as if Paige considered me such a good friend that she couldn’t share me with anyone. Of course, looking back, I see that it was completely one-sided. She was happy to chat and flirt without including me; I just wasn’t supposed to do the same. Then I went out with Caden and all hell broke loose.

I glance at the field and slide my hands under my thighs so I don’t fidget. Could Kashvi be similar? Maybe I should bea little more cautious with what I tell her. I really like her—I want us to be the kind of friends who can share all the details of our lives without judgment—but I’m also scared. I’m not sure if we’re there yet.

My phone vibrates, but I don’t look at it on the off chance that Logan has texted again.

“Mark texted us,” Kashvi tells me, and holds up her phone. “He’s hanging out tonight at the diner where Sloane works. It would be fun for you to see it. Do you think your parents would let us go after the game?”

“Maybe?” My parents usually don’t like us to be out late, but a small-town diner isn’t exactly worrisome.

“Hey, Mom?” I touch her arm to get her attention—she’s so transfixed by the game that I’m not sure she can hear me.