They didn’t care if your head was a mess.
If your heart was somewhere else.
If the one person you couldn’t stop thinking about had just told you to stay away.
No.
The lights just came on.
The crowd showed up.
And you played.
The stadium was packed.
Cheerleaders on the sidelines.
Students packed into the bleachers.
Music blasting, energy high, everyone waiting for one thing—
Marcelo Rivera.
Star quarterback.
Golden boy.
Untouchable.
From the stands, I could see it clearly.
The way everyone watched him.
The way they cheered when he stepped onto the field.
The way Vanessa stood front and center, smiling like she still owned him.
I almost didn’t come.
But my best friend dragged me.
“You need a distraction,” she said.
This?
This was not a distraction.
This was torture.
