By Friday, I'd convinced myself the almost-kiss never happened.
It was the only way to survive the week. I had repeated the narrative so many times in my head that it almost felt true. Jace was just being a decent human. He caught me because gravity exists, not because he wanted me.
But walking into the athletic department office on Friday afternoon, my hands are sweating, completely shredding that nice little lie to pieces.
"Alright, listen up, freshmen," Mrs. Gable says, clacking her long acrylic nails against a stack of clipboards. She’s the athletic coordinator, a terrifyingly organized woman with a sharp bob and a whistle permanently resting on her chest. "You are the gears that keep the Maplewood Wolves running. Players play. Coaches coach. You handle the chaos."
I sit on a plast
