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“Alright,” Coach Donovan says. “Drew Larney!”

My eyes dart to Jackson. His face is a mix of hope and dread—the same cocktail of emotions I’m feeling. If he gets picked, it could be amazing for them. If he doesn’t, it could make everything horribly awkward. But also better for me.

Drew stands and adjusts his red tuxedo, looking every bit like Satan on Christmas morning. He saunters toward the stage as Coach Donovan digs into the bowl with Drew’s name on it.

I hold my breath.

“Jackson Monroe!” Coach Donovan reads.

Jackson’s jaw drops. He looks around in disbelief, then at Drew, then back at his ticket as if expecting it to morph into a losing stub. The whole room seems to hold its breath along with him.

“No way,” Jackson mutters, loud enough for half the banquet hall to hear.

I laugh, and the tension breaks. I clap for him, genuinelyhappy for both of them. This means Jackson won’t be saving me tonight, but maybe he won’t need to. Maybe I’ll get lucky and skate away unscathed.

Jackson rises from his chair with the goofiest grin; his earlier fear completely washed away. He high-fives Drew, who’s practically vibrating with excitement. They’re going to have a blast, and who knows—maybe this will finally push them into the same “something” Elliot and I are dealing with.

The woman in the sparkly dress stirs the next bowl as Jackson and Drew take their time returning to their seats. My heart resumes its frantic drumming.

“Gerard Gunnarson!” Coach Donovan calls.

Oh no.I stand on wobbly legs, towering over the seated crowd like an anxious flamingo. Every eye in the room turns to me, and I swear I can feel their collective fan energy sizzling my skin. I walk, then stop, then walk again.

I gulp. This must be how Carrie felt right before the bucket of pig’s blood tipped over.

The stage seems miles away. I pass tables filled with empty dessert plates and drained wine glasses. Remnants of a happier occasion.

Time stretches like taffy, and I imagine who might be waiting to claim me.

The obsessed freshman who cried when I signed her poster? The guy who runs the sports page on the BSU website?

I reach the steps of the stage and pause. The air up here is thinner and more fragile. I climb the last few steps and stand next to Coach Donovan, who gives me a reassuring pat on the back.

“One of our most popular players,” he says into the microphone, and I flinch at the volume. “There are a lot of tickets in this bowl. Whoever wins this one is very lucky.”

Lucky. Right.

Coach Donovan swirls the tickets around with his hand, taking his time like a chef mixing a delicate sauce. He pulls one out and holds it up to the light, squinting at the tiny print.

Please be someone sane. Please be someone kind.

“Alex Donovan,” Coach Donovan reads.

What?!

The room erupts in confusion. I look out into the crowd and see Alex shrugging, just as baffled as everyone else.Did he stack my bowl as a joke?No, that’s not like him.Did Kyle?

I glance over at him, and he nods.Holy snickers. Kyle Graham just saved my hide.

Coach Donovan leans into the microphone. “Looks like my son has thrown his hat in the ring for Gerard.” He chuckles, amused. “Do you want to claim this one, kiddo?”

All eyes shift to Alex, who takes a moment to stand. He smooths his white suit and clears his throat. “Okay.”

Alex makes his way to the stage with the hesitant steps of a man walking on hot coals. Next to the towering players and fans, he looks small and breakable.

I move toward him but remember we’re in front of a crowd and freeze. I also make a mental note to kiss Kyle’s feet for this—if I survive.

Alex reaches us, and Coach Donovan hands him the ticket. “We’ll frame it,” he says, half-joking. Alex gives a weak smile and stuffs the ticket in his pocket.