Stacy
The roar of the crowd was deafening, but I couldn’t bring myself to cheer. My friends were bouncing beside me, faces painted and pom-poms swinging from side to side, the whole spectacle in full force, while I sat with my arms crossed.
I hadn’t wanted to come. But they had insisted—“It’ll be fun,” they said. “You need to get out,” they said.
Instead, I had a front-row seat to watch my ex-boyfriend be the star of yet another damn football game.
The final whistle blew, and the stands erupted. He tore off his helmet, sweat-slick hair sticking to his forehead, his grin wide as his teammates clapped him on the back.
And then she was there—his ex-girlfriend—standing on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck, clinging to him like she would die if she let go. She kissed him all o
