Page 33 of Catching Feelings

So, I lift a hand to gently cradle her jaw, and I close the inches between my face and hers.

I’m about to vibrate right out of my skin with the restraint it takes to merely brush my lips against hers. A gentle press, though all I want to do is unleash every desire that’s been dancing through my head since I met her.

But I keep it light. So she can pull back if she wants. If I’m misreading this situation.

Her lips part immediately, and she lifts herself onto her toes, and oh, I was not misreading this situation. I lift my other hand to the back of her neck, letting it tangle in her silky-smooth hair. She lets out a little hum that vibrates through my entire body, and it takes all my willpower to remember there’s a party full of all our classmates just a few feet away, that this is not the place to put on a show, that I need to end this before someone catches us, that we’re just friends and neither of us wants anything complicated this year.

But with Sabrina’s lips against mine and her hair in my hands, it’s really, really hard to remember we’re just friends.

When I finally pull back and she thumps onto her heels, we’re both breathing hard. She takes a step backward, hand fluttering unconsciously to her lips, but it can’t hide the smile growing there.

I step forward to open her car door. Before she slides inside, I lean forward and tuck her hair behind her ear. Whisper, “Just this once. Our secret.”

15. SABRINA

The first football game arrives on a truly gorgeous Friday, and I’m more excited for it than I’ve been in a long time. The halls are full of students in blue, many wearing jerseys and face paint. Posters line every bank of lockers, Ms. Moore brings football-field dip to math and invents some problem sets to make it “educational,” and I pass out pom-poms and flags during every passing period. “Go, Hawks!” I chirp, and it gets echoed back to me so much, it may as well be my own name.

As long as I don’t think about the kiss—the earth-shattering, ill-advised, plan-disrupting kiss that will absolutely not happen again—everything is going smoothly. Priya and Naomi locked in the Greenfield theater for homecoming, which is almost out of our budget, but at this point, I’ll take anything that gives us a venue so I have something to tell all the girls who are desperate to match their dresses to the vibe. We’ll get creative with decorations, fish for donations from local businesses, and—as long as I follow the plan—pull it off just barely in the black.

Like Tyler said, maybe it’ll even be better than our typical dance.

I can’t stop smiling.

The handful of clouds in the otherwise blue sky turn to cotton-candy colors as the sun sets. When the lights flick on over the field, casting everything into dramatic light and shadow, I shiver. The marching band kicks in, perfectly synchronized, all brass and snares and wheeling color guard, and my entire chest expands with pride.

There’s a reason football feels so epic, and it’s not just the way it mimics old problematic wars. It’s impossible not to be filled with a sense of wonder and power when you survey the expanse of turf and imagine your team courageously putting up a stand against your greatest enemies (the town next door).

I laugh to myself as I set up the merch table. It’s all just a game—but it’s more than a game too, and I’m delighted to be any small part of it.

When the gates open, a flood of blue and white storms up the bleachers, feet pounding against the aluminum. Fans turn my way as soon as they see the signs the Spirit Committee made.

Team Pride, One Bead at a Time!

Because the Best Fans Deserve the Best Jewels!

Where Spirit Meets Style!

Harper had muttered something about going a little overboard, but I disagree. I can still see between the signs, which tells me there’s room for at least one more next time!

Sure enough, we can barely keep up with demand. Students flood our table, clutching Styrofoam cups of cider and oohing over Harper’s wares. I’d tried to convince her to keep it simple—most people like school colors, player numbers, and easy slogans about the Hawks—but she brushed off my advice and started monologuing about artistic integrity. And she knew what she was talking about, because even her stranger designs are flying off the shelves.

Hawks Don’t Huddle, We Hunt!

Most Talon-ted Team in the League

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can’t Lose!

“You don’t need to know much about football to make some Hawk puns,” Harper says smugly.

I frown. “Is this one a Friday Night Lights reference?”

She ignores me. “You should pick yours out before they’re all gone, Sabrina. Can I interest you in a number? Maybe… thirteen?”

My eyes fly to the poster of the team hanging above our table. Three guesses who number 13 belongs to.

“There’s nothing happening there.” But I’m fiddling with the ribbon in my hair, and the smug smile creeping onto Harper’s face tells me she definitely notices.

She raises an eyebrow. “Mm-hmm.”