The End Zone

“No, I don’t. You have something of mine that I want back.”

“And I suppose that’d be Sage?” I tilt my head sideways. She shrugs, snorting out an unattractive laugh she’d never allow herself in his presence.

“And his money. And his future. And his status. Basically, everything. The best thing about being upfront with you about it, is that you’re too goody-two-shoes to even tell him I ever said it. Because you don’t talk badly of people, do you, sweet girl? I know all about you and your running-to-see-mommy-every-other-weekend tactics.”

Tactics?

Tactics?!

She thinks I go through life trying to impress someone? My best friend? Is she nuts? I don’t even need anyone to answer this question. Of course, she’s nuts. No one of sound mind would ever think in this direction. I lower my body, lean into her face, and whisper, “I know what happened to you, and I’m sorry that it did. I am. But you cannot break us up, Amber. I suggest you move on, and while you’re at it, take a very long look at your behavior and priorities. Because you’re not being assertive or street-smart here, girl. You’re being a manipulative bitch.”

The words slap her, one by one, and I see her cocky smile melting into a shocked, wide-eyed grimace. One of her friends—a brunette who is wearing a lemon yellow cardigan and a matching headband—crinkles her nose.

“Wait, how do you mean after what happened to you? What exactly happened to you?”

“I…I…”

Another girl, who sits directly in front of her, bolts up from her chair and shakes her head. Her face is so red it is completely possible she might explode.

“Jesus Christ, Amber! Tell me you didn’t go through with that stupid plan! Faking a pregnancy and then a miscarriage? Like, hello, newsflash! Your life is not a bad General Hospital episode!”

I stagger backwards, gripping the end of my desk and staring at a very embarrassed, very angry Amber as her eyes broaden and her chest heaves up and down, the adrenaline of the lie catching up with reality.

Everything turns red.

Then black.

Then white again, because the lie is not mine. Not mine to keep, to be burdened with, nor to carry.

I turn around to collect my MacBook and my shoulder bag and dash outside the library door, making my way to the nearest bus station back home. Amber is after me. I hear her heels clacking against the floor. I don’t turn around, mainly because the notion that I can do something terrible to her—slap her, yell at her, or curse her out—is strong.

She might be that kind of person, but I’m not.

Just as I round the corner of the street, Chelsea’s blue Buick appears from the intersection. She stops in front of me with a screech and throws the passenger’s door open.

“Need a getaway ride?”

“That seems to be the reoccurring theme in my life right now.”

I hop in, then I watch Amber’s disappearing figure through the side mirror as my heart finally returns to its usual rhythm.

“More coffee stains?” Chelsea chuckles, her eyes scanning my blouse. I smile, avoiding the full story.

“That’s right. I’m starting to believe they’re my sign for good luck.”



Four days before Christmas Eve.

“You ready?” I ask, staring at the mirror as I fasten my cufflinks. The crisp dress shirt is a Prada, and it’s weird to wear Prada. It’s weird to be able to afford Prada, and I constantly have to remind myself that this is a one-off. I bought this suit for the meeting I had with the Raiders in California because JoJo made me. She said I needed to dress the way I wanted to feel. Well, today I feel like I’m going to fulfill my dream and become a professional football player as of next spring.

That’s one of two dreams down, one more to go.

“Just a sec!” my girl calls out from the bathroom at the fancy hotel room. Even though I’ve known her ever since we were kids, there is a lot I’m finding out about her, now that we’re dating. Like how it takes her literally two hours to get ready to go out, even though she doesn’t need more than two minutes to get ready for school when we leave for campus every morning, or that she is really (ironically) horny when she’s on her period, which makes us hella creative in bed (I don’t mind a little blood on my sword), but she does. Or that she is not actually that sensitive or sweet when she has a reason not to be—like that time she came back home and told me how Amber goddamn tricked me into babying her. I still haven’t recovered from that shit.

Wait, that’s not true. I totally did. But still. What an asshole that girl is.

“Okay! Close your eyes,” she says. My tie is still loose around my neck, and I frown, turn around, lean a hip against the dresser, and shove my hands into my pockets.

“All right. Let’s see it.”

“That’s the whole point, Sage! You can’t see it! Eyes closed, remember?” she squeaks. Squeaks. I make her squeak these days. I never did that when we were friends. She also does a lot of huffing, especially when I ask her if we can have sex in insane places like the plane or the beach. I think she huffs to let me know that the idea is insane, but we still end up doing it all the same.

“Yeah, yeah, eyes as closed as your legs this evening,” I mutter, squeezing my eyelids together.