Page 8

8

MADISON

T he mall hums with life, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against the polished tile.

People weave around me, moving with purpose, but I drift through the crowd like a ghost. My body is here, but my mind is miles away—stuck on the feelings resurfacing the last few times Jaxon and I have hung out.

The way my body comes to life with so much as an accidental brush of our hands.

The butterflies and weird swoop thing my stomach does when he smiles right at me, just like it used to before college.

I shake my head, trying to shove the memories aside.

Don’t go there, girlfriend.

But it’s useless.

The past two weeks replay like a highlight reel I never agreed to watch—late-night study sessions where I lost track of time, inside jokes whispered over too-hot coffee, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs.

His dimples when he smirks, the way he always smells so good.

He’s everywhere, in the spaces between my thoughts, in the places I swore I’d never let him live.

I duck into a store, fingers brushing over the soft fabric of a sweater, needing something—anything—to pull me back to reality.

I can’t do this. I’ve walked this road before, thinking I could be happy, and I know exactly where it leads—straight to heartbreak.

“Earth to Madison!” A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts, and I turn just as Lyla bounds over, curls bouncing.

She’s grinning, but her sharp gaze scans my face like she already knows I’m unraveling.

“I’ve been calling your name for, like, a full minute,” she says.

“What’s got you so spaced out?”

I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as brittle as it feels.

“Just thinking about that music theory test next week. You know how Professor Harris loves to torture us.”

Lyla lifts a single, unimpressed brow.

“Uh-huh. I’m sure it has nothing to do with a certain tall, dark, and deliciously attractive football player.”

“Shut up,” I groan, but my voice lacks conviction.

She loops her arm through mine as we start walking again.

“Come on, Maddy. I know you better than that.”

I sigh, the familiar tightness creeping into my chest. “It’s…difficult, Ly.” My voice is quieter now, the weight of those words heavier than I want to admit.

“You know I don’t do relationships, especially romantic ones where someone will inevitably get hurt.”

Lyla’s teasing expression softens.

“I know. But maybe it’s time to give it a chance? Jaxon’s not just some guy. You two have a lot of history.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” I murmur, bitterness coating my tongue.

“And who’s to say he came here for that? What if he just wanted a fresh start somewhere new?”

“And downgraded to a smaller school, a team that isn’t as good, and decided to do so the night before the transfer portal closed? Yeah, definitely seems like something a “friend” would totally do.

” She rolls her eyes, taking a moment to check out the shorts in front of her.

Memories flicker in the back of my mind—the hollow sound of my father’s rage, my mother’s quiet resignation, the way love always seemed like something meant to hurt.

I swallow hard and shove it all down, where it belongs.

“Can we not talk about this?” I ask, hating the way my voice shakes.

Lyla watches me for a moment before squeezing my arm.

“Okay. No boy talk. But at least let me help you find a killer outfit for the game.”

I roll my eyes, grateful for the out.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“That’s why you love me,” she chirps, already dragging me toward another store.

I let her pull me along, pretending shopping is the only thing on my mind.

But no matter how many racks of clothes I sift through, no matter how much I try to distract myself, the truth lingers like a shadow at the edge of my thoughts.

And for the first time in years, a tiny part of me wants to let myself feel it.

"What about this one?" I hold up a midnight blue dress, more to distract myself than out of genuine interest.

Lyla's eyes light up. "Oh, girl, that's gorgeous! You'd look amazing in that."

I snort, my default sarcasm kicking in. "Yeah, if I wanted to look like I'm trying too hard."

Lyla gives me a pointed look. "Come on, Madison. You'd turn heads in that dress. Especially Jaxon's."

At the mention of his name, my heart does a traitorous little flip. I busy myself with putting the dress back, hoping Lyla doesn't notice the flush creeping up my neck.

"Look, I know we said no boy talk, but," Lyla says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp, "you sure nothing ever happened between you two? He seems pretty determined for a guy who was never thrown a bone, ya know.”

I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. "It's complicated, Ly."

"Isn't it always?" She raises an eyebrow, waiting.

I take a deep breath, knowing I can't dodge this conversation forever. "We were...close. Really close. But we never crossed that line."

"Why not?"

Images flash through my mind—stolen glances, lingering touches, moments when the air between us felt electric. "I was too scared," I admit quietly. "Every time I felt myself falling, I pulled back."

Lyla's expression softens. "Oh, Maddy."

"I know, I know." I force a laugh, but it comes out hollow. "I'm a mess."

"You're not a mess," Lyla says firmly. "You're just...cautious. After everything you've been through, that's understandable."

We browse in silence for a few minutes, the quiet hum of the store a welcome distraction from my swirling thoughts. I run my fingers over a rack of soft sweaters, trying to focus on the textures instead of the ache in my chest.

"Can I ask you something?" Lyla's voice is gentle.

I nod, bracing myself.

"What scares you the most about having real feelings for someone?"

The question hits me like a punch to the gut. I close my eyes, willing the tears not to fall. When I speak, my voice is barely above a whisper.

"Every time I love someone, they leave. My mom, my grandparents... I can't do it again, Ly.

I can't take the chance of hurting Jaxon or myself. I just... I can't handle my heart breaking one more time.

Honestly, there’s nothing even left to break.

Another loss would do me in.

That’s why I thought just putting space between us, letting him forget about me, would be the best option.

"

Lyla wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a tight hug. "Oh, Maddy.

I'm so sorry.”

I lean into her embrace, letting out a shaky breath. "It's okay."

"I get it," she says softly. "But you know, pushing people away doesn't actually protect you from getting hurt. It just means you're hurting yourself first."

Her words hit a little too close to home, and I pull away, busying myself with a nearby rack of scarves. "Maybe," I mutter. "But at least then, I'm in control of it."

Lyla sighs, but she doesn't push it further.

"Come on, let's find you something to wear to the afterparty. Something that says 'I'm here to support the team' but also 'don’t fuck with me.’”

I can't help but laugh at that, grateful for the shift in mood. "Is that a look?

Because if so, I think I've been nailing it for years."

We spend the next hour sifting through racks, debating the merits of various outfits. In the end, I settle on a pair of high-waisted jeans and a soft, oversized sweater in our school colors. It's comfortable but still put-together enough that I won't feel out of place among the sea of face-painted, jersey-wearing fans.

As we make our way to the checkout, Lyla loops her arm through mine. "You know I'm always here if you need to talk, right?

About anything."

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "I know.

Thanks, Ly."

Back at our apartment, we spend the rest of the night eating nerd clusters, drinking tequila and binge watching Grey’s Anatomy. Tomorrow’s the first home game of the season, and while I’ve attended every single one the last couple years, this one is different. The nerves I feel aren’t just hoping we win.

They’re hoping a certain brown eyed wide receiver plays his best game yet.

The roar of the crowd hits me like a wave as Lyla and I push through into the packed stadium. My heart races, though I'm not sure if it's from excitement or anxiety.

"Holy crap, it's crowded," Lyla yells over the noise. "I've never seen it this packed for a first game!

"

I nod, unable to find my voice as we wade through the sea of bodies. The scent of popcorn and hot dogs wafts over us, making my stomach growl despite my nerves.

"Want to grab some snacks?

" Lyla asks, gesturing to the concession stand.

"Sure," I manage. Food might settle the butterflies in my stomach.

We get in line, and I scan the crowd, unable to help myself from searching for a familiar face. Stop it, Madison . He's not going to be out here this close to kick off.

"What do you want?" Lyla's voice snaps me back to reality.

"Oh, um, just a Coke is fine.

"

She raises an eyebrow. "You sure?

The nachos smell amazing.

"

I shake my head. "I'm good."

Lyla shrugs and orders for us both. As we wait, I fidget with the hem of my shirt, wishing I'd worn something nicer—or maybe Jaxon's jersey, like half the girls here seem to be sporting.

We grab our food and drinks and make our way to our seats. With each step, I feel more out of place.

"Here we are!" Lyla plops down, but I hesitate before sitting.

All around us, girls are decked out in Jaxon paraphernalia. Some have painted their faces with his number or the school colors. They're laughing, taking selfies, radiating an easy confidence I've never possessed.

I sink into my seat, suddenly feeling very small. "There sure are a lot of Jaxon fans here," I mutter.

Lyla follows my gaze and snorts. "Please. Half of them probably don't even know what position he plays.

They just think he's hot."

Her words are meant to reassure me, but they only twist the knot in my stomach tighter. Because she's right—Jaxon is hot. And talented. And going places. Who am I to hold him back from that?

I try to squash the jealousy rising in my chest, but it's persistent. These girls, with their perfect hair and flawless makeup, represent everything I'm not, everything Jaxon really deserves .

"Hey, you okay?" Lyla asks, nudging me with her elbow. "You look like you're about to be sick."

I force a smile. "I'm fine. Just...a lot of people."

She doesn't look convinced, but thankfully, she doesn't push it. As the teams start to file onto the field for warm-ups, I sink lower in my seat, wishing I could disappear.

A chorus of high-pitched squeals erupts around us as Jaxon jogs onto the field. Girls jump to their feet, waving and calling his name. My chest tightens as I watch him scan the crowd, his brown eyes searching.

"Jaxon! Over here!" a blonde two rows down waves frantically, nearly spilling her drink.

I shrink further into my seat, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. Why would he look for me when he has all of them?

But then, his gaze locks onto mine, and the world narrows to just us. His lips curve into that crooked smile I know so well, and he lifts his hand, pointer and middle finger forming half a heart.

Our old signal. My breath catches.

Before I can stop myself, my own fingers are mirroring his. It's muscle memory, a reflex born from countless years of stolen moments and secret smiles.

"What are you doing?" Lyla whispers, eyebrow raised.

I drop my hand quickly, heat flooding my cheeks. "Nothing. It's just..

.an old thing."

Jaxon's grin widens, lighting up his entire face. He gives me a quick wink before jogging back to the sidelines, leaving me breathless and confused.

"Doesn't look like nothing," Lyla says, a hint of amusement in her voice.

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as my heart races. "We’ve done it since we were, what, seven? Maybe eight?"

“I’m just saying, girlfriend, given the opportunity, I’d climb that man like a tree.” She grins, shrugging as I stick her with a glare. “Respectfully. ”

As the announcer starts calling out tonight's starting line, I can’t help but cheer a little louder for number nine.