Since it looks like I’m stuck in my traditional responsible role, I go ahead and embrace it. It’s what I’ve always done— relished being the girl who had the best organized notes, the phone numbers of all the local safe drive companies, or the one who actually knew how to do CPR (and not just from the movies). It feels uncomfortable now, though, like putting on a favorite dress only to realize you’ve outgrown it between seasons. I wedge myself into it anyhow. What else can I do?

The audition for the theater department is coming up, and it feels less and less likely I’ll go, especially since Trishelle seems to have forgotten about it entirely. She hasn’t nagged me about studying the audition scripts in weeks, save for the occasional “You’ll be super busy once you’re in theater” she tells me when she blows off plans with me to go to some cheerleader-themed event.

I’m invited out with her less and less, until I’m not invited at all. I never wanted to go to those things to start with, of course, but when I realize she’s no longer issuing the invitations, I’m more than a little wounded.

“Are you excited?” I ask her the morning of her first game. She woke up stupid early and hot rolled her hair, then brushed it out, then sprayed it, then pulled it up, so it’s molded into a perfectly beachy-waved ponytail that barely moves when she does.

“I think I might throw up,” she says, shaking her head, but she hasn’t been able to stop grinning. She takes another bite of yogurt, ignoring the egg McMuffin I brought her to celebrate the big day. Apparently, the captains not so subtly let her take a look at the uniform order, and Trishelle wore a slightly larger size than most of the other girls. I know— and I know that Trishelle must know— that this is because her thighs and butt are pure muscle, but that hasn’t stopped her from dieting obsessively for the last few weeks. I take an unnecessarily big bite of my own egg McMuffin in protest of her new existence.

“You’ll be great. I’ll have my phone ready in case they show you on TV,” I tell her. I’m not going to the game. I said it’s because I couldn’t get tickets, which isn’t totally true. I could probably have gotten tickets, if I’d tried, but…I sort of want to sit at home, mope, and eat that second egg McMuffin. Besides, I have no idea how football works, and after all that happened— or rather, didn’t happen— with Tyson Slate, I have to admit that I don’t care to learn more about the sport.

The game starts after lunch. I turn on the television and set myself up on the couch, curled in a blanket to combat our AC, which waffles between extreme cold and extreme heat without a shred of nuance. The commentators are a series of bros wearing suits who talk about stats and players and starting lineups and expectations for a half hour before the game actually begins.

Tyson is number eight, the starting quarterback, and as we reach the end of the first quarter it’s become clear to me that he commands the field the way a general might command troops. Everything about him is calm; he jogs when others run, he doesn’t speak with his hands, he nods curtly when talking to coaches. The uniform and helmet make him totally unreadable— which, according to the commentators, is one of his strengths.

“Of all the Slate brothers,” one says, “Tyson Slate is definitely the most unique in terms of playing style. His brothers were loud and boisterous on the field, and used that positive energy to hype the rest of their teams. Tyson takes a different approach— he’s calm and controlled, which keeps everyone’s emotions in check. Some say it makes for a less exciting game, but it definitely makes for a more reliable win. His two older brothers are now playing with the pros, and if I were a betting man, I’d say Tyson isn’t far behind.”

“And of course, we can’t mention the Slate family without bringing up Dennis Slate— but only because we’ve all heard the rumors about how the drama with Tyson’s father, who is on trial for murder, has affected Tyson Slate’s role on the team here in Charlotte. He’s still a great leader, but there have been a dozen or so leaks about him seeming to be emotionally and personally checked out from the game.”

“That may be true,” another commentator says, “But with a guy like Tyson Slate, as long as he’s physically showing up, he can get by— at least here at the college level. If he wants to make it to pro level ball, he’s going to have to either make peace with his father’s situation or learn to better compartmentalize his personal life and the game.”

Soon, Charlotte is up by a touchdown, and I notice that Tyson doesn’t seem as drained as the rest of the players on both teams do as they go into the end of the second quarter. I think I understand what those commentators mean, now— the rest of the team is playing with their bodies and their hearts, and it’s wearing them down. Tyson is playing with his body alone, and while he’s talented enough to get away with it, it’s still clear he could give more—

I jump when Trishelle’s face appears on the screen right as the network goes to commercial. I curse, realizing I forgot to record it— my phone is in my hand, ready to go, but I was so busy thinking about Tyson that I didn’t see the obvious opportunity for a gratuitous shot of the cheerleaders. She looked amazing— her hair still hadn’t moved an inch, and she had a Charlotte Rangers temporary tattoo on the apple of her right cheek. I wonder if her parents saw it, back home. I wonder if my parents saw it— I’ve been friends with Trishelle so long that they likely watched the game just for the chance to see her in her new role.

Trishelle doesn’t appear on camera again, besides being in a few long shots or blurry in the background behind a football player’s head. I don’t bother recording them, and when she finally gets back home at almost eight o’clock, I lie and tell her I didn’t see her other than in the background, but add the caveat that I was studying while the game was on, so perhaps I missed it.

“Studying? During a game?” she says, rolling her eyes a little at me. “Come on, Anna. You’ve got to get more invested in this place if you want to enjoy it.”

“And stop studying? At a school? Isn’t studying an investment in the school?” I ask with a sigh.

She makes a face at me, then drops her cheer bag by the front door. “I’m just changing clothes real quick— there’s a party at the captain’s house tonight and I’m supposed to get auctioned off.”

“Um, I’m sorry, what?” I ask, blinking and sitting up straighter on the couch— where I am, in fact, studying (now, anyway).

“Apparently after the first game, the freshman cheerleaders get auctioned off to the football players. Seniors first.”

“Auctioned off? Like…a cow?”

“No! Like a date. It’s for charity, I think. Probably. It’s not for real or anything, it’s just for fun. Stop taking everything so seriously,” Trishelle says with an almost pitying smile. She vanishes into her bedroom, where she changes into a short dress and heels that make her taller than me— she’s just now built up to them. She grabs her purse, waves, and then disappears. I watch her go, feeling sick over the fact that one, my best friend is excited about being auctioned off for who the hell knows what, and two, Tyson Slate is a senior football player. Does he participate in this auction thing? It sounds like they all do, so probably. Trishelle— the “new” Trishelle anyway— is the sort of girl you’d expect Tyson to be with…would he step in front of her, walk away and pretend she was nothing? Would he be ashamed of her like he was ashamed of me?

Of course not. She’s the exact type of girl he would be proud to be seen with.

What if she comes back with a story of sleeping with Tyson Slate? What if Trishelle not only gets the reinvention I so badly want, but the guy too?

I knew I had to have you.

That’s what he told me— but if he had to have me, he could have. And if he wants Trishelle, or any of the other freshman cheerleaders, I suppose he can have them too if he bids high enough. I swallow. I need to get out of the apartment for the night— because what if Trishelle brings him back here? Or what if she stumbles back in at two o’clock with stories about Tyson Slate’s hands on her or one of her friends, stories lifted from my own fantasies? I shiver, throw on some clothes, and hurry to the student center.

The Charlotte University student center is open twenty-four hours, has a coffee shop, and enormous oversized chairs and couches in just about every room. It’s attached to the library, though that section is closed at this time of night— instead, I grab a book out of the “leave a book, take a book” bin out front and crash on a sofa with a large latte. Trishelle usually comes back in around two o’clock, if she comes back at all. I’ll hang out here till two thirty to be sure the coast is clear. I feel a little silly about the whole thing, but my ego just can’t take hearing about anything to do with Tyson and any other girl.

I yawn, slide down on the couch, and begin to read.

Which…is the last thing I remember. Suddenly, I snap awake, with no idea how long I’ve been out. I blink and fumble for my phone through bleary eyes. It’s almost four o’clock in the morning. I groan, clear my throat, and rise— was I sleeping with my mouth open? Probably.

I don’t have any texts from Trishelle, so I assume she came home alone— she’s always texted me when she’s staying with someone, and I can’t imagine her bringing a guy back without at least a heads up. The mental image of her toned, lean legs around Tyson’s waist fades, and relief trickles through my limbs as I walk back to our apartment. I was being ridiculous anyway— Trishelle said the auction was just for fun. It was probably some stupid tradition; I was the one that added sex to the equation, the one that turned what might be an innocent party game into my best friend bringing a senior football player back to our apartment. I flush, embarrassed for myself. I can’t believe Tyson Slate managed to get so thoroughly under my skin.

I climb the steps to our apartment, untangle my keys, and push through the door. It’s pitch black inside— it’s four o’clock in the morning, after all— but I nearly trip over a pair of high heels, so at least I know Trishelle is home. I don’t bother turning on the lights, opting to feel my way along the kitchen bar, to the hallway, and finally to my bedroom. I open my door, kick off my own shoes and toss my book inside, then strip off my shirt as I head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I yawn, push open the bathroom door—

A light in the living room clicks on— one of our tiny table lamps. I grimace and turn toward Trishelle to apologize for waking her up-

But it’s not Trishelle.

Sitting on our sofa, wearing jeans, a gray t-shirt, and that impossible to read expression, is Tyson Slate.