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brIELLE

A shiver ran through my body, not just because of the slight chill in the early-October air.

Mal and I sat in stadium seats during halftime at Ares home game.

For the past two weeks, I’d had the unsettling feeling that someone was following me.

Part of me thought it was my overactive imagination as my crazy mom barricaded herself in the apartment.

She’d screamed at me when I’d tried to open the blinds last time I was there.

Ser and I were increasingly worried about her mental state.

But when I glanced around, I couldn’t find anyone’s eyes on me.

“Hey.” I leaned close to Mal so she could hear me over the boisterous crowd. “I’m going to the restroom. Want anything while I’m by concessions?”

“No thanks.” She grinned then turned back to Ser when my sister smacked her arm.

We brought my sis to as many things as we could on the weekends or just let her hang out at the dorm if she didn’t have plans—anything and everything to keep her out of the apartment with Mom.

Ser and I thought Mom was crazy, but the more that unsettling sensation of being watched had skated down my spine as I’d walked across campus, the more I’d begun to question if Mom wasn’t onto something.

Maybe she was right, and Dad was beholden to the mafia for a loan.

It made no sense, as I’d thought we had plenty of money, but I hadn’t paid close attention to the details of his case.

At the time, Ser and I had been so shell-shocked, all we could manage to process was that Dad had committed a crime and lost the business, and worse, our home—ultimately shattering our family with his deed and subsequent absence.

It hit me the hardest in the dark moments when I was alone.

The man I’d thought I’d known wasn’t real.

The man who’d ignored Ser and me and spent his time at work or with Mom jetting off to this vacation or that had, in fact, been the real one.

Ser and I hadn’t liked to admit it while growing up under their roof, but our parents were intensely selfish people and didn’t have a lot of room in their lives for their kids—unless our presence could benefit them somehow.

I shimmied down the aisle and joined a mob of people with the same goal as me, or who were getting food before the game started again.

Our team was killing it, and the playoffs in December were a sure thing.

Ares was unstoppable on the field, even with two players guarding him rather than one, which had become a frequent strategy.

It didn’t matter. He plowed through them all.

The thrill it gave me to watch him move like he did had only made things hotter between us when we were alone.

The press of bodies in front of me and behind shifted, and I climbed another few steps.

How could I quit being his fake girlfriend?

I hated thinking about it. As the days had passed since our argument and subsequent discussion, we’d only grown closer.

I texted him with any number of random thoughts throughout the day.

He did the same, but not as often, as his schedule was so much more grueling than mine.

Even things with his nephew had improved.

He was still a little rowdy in class at times, but he was always respectful.

I’d had a few discussions with his football coach just to check in, and he was thrilled with Preston’s attitude and talent.

Plus, his grades had gone up. I looked forward to his parent-teacher conference with his Nana, rather than dreading it.

I had minutes of halftime left to spare by the time I finished in the restroom.

I washed my hands, mostly drying them on my jeans as I rushed to return to my seat.

As soon as I stepped out into the mezzanine, the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood.

I shivered and glanced around. A tall man wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up, keeping his face in shadow, leaned against the wall not two feet from me.

An ominous, dangerous vibe rolled off him in waves, despite his casual position.

He had the same build as the guy I’d spotted in the woods while walking Ser home.

Every nerve in my body screamed for me to run.

I whipped my head back toward the stairs and willed my feet to grow wings as I hurried, weaving around people to put as much distance as possible between me and the mystery man.

When I got to my seat, heart thumping uncomfortably in my chest, I spared a glance back where I’d come from. I searched every shadowed crevice and only breathed a sigh of relief when I didn’t see him. Am I overreacting? Or are Mom’s drunken stories about being followed a fact?