ZOE
I stare at the jersey lying on my bed, the bold number 18 taunting me. This is crazy. Why am I even considering this?
I grab my phone, half-tempted to text Blake and tell him I’m sick, busy—anything. But no. He’d see right through it. And the look he’d give me? That smug, “I knew you wouldn’t do it” look? Yeah, no thanks.
I mutter to myself, running a hand through my hair. “You don’t have to go, Zoe. Just… tell him it’s a bad idea.”
But the thought of him out there, looking for me in the stands, makes my stomach flip. I let out a sigh, picking up the jersey and slipping it on. It feels weirdly… right. Too right.
I tug a jacket over it, zipping it up to hide the number. This isn’t a commitment. I’m just going to watch a game.
Right. And pigs fly.
I glance in the mirror, taking a
