Brett
Cassie’s one-word answer stayed on my phone long after the screen went dark.
Yes.
She was going to dinner with Derek on Saturday.
Not another committee meeting. Not coffee squeezed between classes. A real date, planned days in advance, with a guy who had looked entirely too pleased when she agreed. I had watched them leave the café together, watched Derek hold the door for her, and then stood beside my truck like an i***t while Cassie walked away without looking back.
For years, I had been the one leaving while she watched.
Apparently, the view from the other side sucked.
I shoved my phone into my locker and pulled my practice jersey over my head. The room around me was loud with the normal pre-practice chaos—music playing from Ollie’s speaker, guys arguing about tape, someone
