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Then her gaze lifts and finds mine.

And for the first time all day, she lets herself smile.

It’s small.

It’s real.

It hits me like a punch.

I stand and clap, chest tight.

Sloane’s smile fades a fraction as her eyes flick past me, toward the empty space Pops should have filled.

The loss sneaks in even inside the win.

I swallow hard and keep clapping anyway.

Because the point is not to fix it.

The point is to be here.

—

After the game, I stay in my seat, waiting for Sloane to come out of the locker room, the floor having turned into a stormof bodies—players hugging, students crowding the rail, Coach talking too loudly, the band still playing like they can keep joy alive by brute force.

Jade finds me again before I can escape.

She points at my shirt and laughs. “I’m sorry—who allowed this?”

“Her father,” I mutter.

Blakely appears behind her, expression unreadable. “I support this choice.”

Jade gasps, “Blakely supports romance. We’re in the end times.”

“Please don’t make this weird,” I warn, rubbing the back of my neck.

Jade leans closer, stage whispering loudly, “So, are you, like…in love? Or?—”

“Go home and shower,” I cut in.

Jade beams. “Yes, sir.”

Blakely’s gaze flicks past me. “She’s coming.”

My pulse jumps anyway.

Sloane steps out from the cluster a moment later, duffel slung over her shoulder, sweaty and glowing in that post-game way that makes her look younger than she ever allows herself to be.

Her eyes land on me.

She rolls her eyes. “Take it off.”

I lift a brow. “We just won.”

“That’s not relevant,” she snaps, but her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile.

Jade whistles. “Toxic banter! I love it!”