Chapter 19
“This—this is more than exposure therapy,” I said for what felt like the millionth time.
I gripped the handle installed above the door as if we were about to plummet off the road to our deaths instead of two minutes from pulling into the Jefferson High parking lot.
“You realize that, right? This—this isn’t therapy.
This is whatever the opposite of therapy is. ”
“Isn’t the whole point of exposure therapy to confront things you’re afraid of?”
“Not by throwing me in the deep end!” I looked down at where my Brentwood varsity jacket lay crumbled on the floor, and the sight of it almost made me feel nauseous. “If someone sees me—”
“Who’d see you?” Logan asked calmly—ever and always calm. “No one from Brentwood would be there, and no offense, I doubt anyone would recognize a Brentwood cheerleader.” And then, after a beat, he mumbled, “Probably.”
“Probably!” I gaped at him. “You don’t even know!”
Logan took his hand off the steering wheel, reaching over—and then placed it on the gearshift in the middle of us. “We won’t go to the stands, anyway. We’ll stand at the fence, away from everybody. There, but not there at the same time.”
“Do you hear yourself? We’ll definitely be there. I’ll be attending a Bulldog football game—”
Before I had a chance to spiral further, Logan’s hand practically jumped from the gearshift to where my fingers curled into a tight fist in my lap.
Without hesitation, he worked his thumb in my grip, prying my nails out of my palms. The warmth of his skin against the coolness of mine almost seemed to have the opposite affect—it was like he was the water to my fire.
I relaxed ever so slightly, a soothing feeling overpowering the frantic exclamation points.
And then I snapped back to reality. “Oh, now you hold my hand!” I scoffed in a high tone, yanking my hand back. “When I’m in the middle of freaking out, you think ooh, I’ll just hold her hand, and she’ll melt under my touch, is that it?”
Logan pressed his lips together tightly, but it did nothing to hide his smile. “Madison—”
“It’d be like—it’d be like—me asking you to sing on stage in front of everyone!” And even that didn’t feel like the right example. “It’d be like—”
I cut myself off. Through my distress, Logan made his way to the Jefferson High parking lot, and he turned off the main road into it. Almost immediately, my panic began to ebb. The lot was less than a quarter full, despite the game starting in five minutes. “Are you sure you have the day right?”
Logan actually laughed aloud. “It’s the seventh and eighth grades playing,” he told me as he easily found a parking space. “They play at the high school field. Hardly anyone goes to these games, except the parents.”
I was struck yet again with how different Brentwood and Jefferson were.
Football was life at Brentwood, even for the middle school.
Sure, high schoolers going to those games were few and far between, unless they were helping the coaches, but at the very least, the entire middle school showed up to cheer on their fellow Bobcats.
From the looks of it, there weren’t even enough cars for one parent per football player. “So… why are we going, then?”
“The boy I was with the day you came to my football practice,” Logan said, putting the car in park and turning to me. “His name is Curtis. He asked me to come watch him play. I haven’t had the chance to yet this season, since I’ve been working.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So this isn’t really a date so much as me tagging along.”
“It’s a date,” he assured without missing a beat. “You’re with me, and I’m with you. We can get snacks, watch a football game. You love football.”
I did love football, but. Ugh. And out of, like, twelve cars, what were the chances of someone recognizing me? Slim. And even then, what were the chances of someone recognizing me and telling other people about it? The likelihood of it getting back to Jade was few and far between. Right?
“I can’t say no when you’ve promised a child, now can I?” I grumbled, slowly reaching for my seatbelt. “But for the record, I really want to.”
The excitement that crossed Logan’s face made it all worth it. It bloomed like a flower in the sun, and he popped his seatbelt undone. “We can leave anytime you’d like,” he assured happily. “And you can pick any snacks you want from the concession stands. It’s on me.”
“It’d better be.” I flipped down Logan’s visor to use the small mirror, wincing.
I’d scrubbed my under eyes with a tissue on the drive over, so my smudged mascara now only faintly looked like I had a black eye.
My hair was beginning to frizz from the little rain shower, but I didn’t have a hair tie to pull it back.
I looked… rough. “You’re not allowed to pick any more dates, Logan Castle. You’re so bad at it.”
He just laughed as we climbed from the car.
Instead of coming around the front of the car, Logan popped open the door to the backseat and stretched in. “I can’t promise how good it’ll smell,” he murmured as he reached. “It’s been in here a while.”
I rubbed my hands over my exposed arms. The rain had quit on the drive over, but the coolness it’d brought still clung to the air.
I could see the field from here, and could hear the official from the field speaking, but couldn’t make out the words.
It wasn’t dark yet, but the field lights were on, illuminating the small players. “I’m not picky.”
I was having a slightly out-of-body moment, vibrating underneath my skin.
Throughout it all, engaging with Logan on any level was a betrayal, but this was…
almost unspeakable. But who was I betraying?
Brentwood? Of course not. I wasn’t switching schools or anything crazy.
I wasn’t even wearing Bulldog spirit gear.
I was just… attending a football game. They weren’t even facing Brentwood, so what did it matter?
Fabric brushed my arm, and I turned to find Logan offering his black and red varsity jacket to me.
I actually couldn’t bring myself to take it.
“Too far?” Logan lowered it slightly. “This is all I’ve got, though. I cleaned my car out the other day—”
“I can wear it,” I said slowly, but still made no effort to pick it up.
It was just a jacket. A silly jacket with a silly dog on it in silly colors.
It wasn’t even the first time I’d worn the thing, but it totally went against that spirit gear thought I had a second ago.
“Only as long as I can cheer for the other team.” I couldn’t rep Jefferson gear and cheer for their team. I had to draw a line.
Logan laughed at that, looking at me like an endeared parent. “Deal.”
He readjusted the jacket, holding it ready so I’d be able to slide my arms through.
I focused on his expression for a beat. Logan was so patient, even when it came to how irrational I could be.
And even now, with his gentle eyes on me, I knew he wouldn’t be mad if I ultimately changed my mind.
He’d give a quick nod, throw the jacket back in, and find me something else with no hesitation.
If I said no, and truly put my foot down, he’d be the first to open the passenger door back up. He’d do anything.
And with Logan, it felt like I could do anything.
So, drawing a breath in, I turned around, and Logan helped loop my arms through the jacket before setting it over my shoulders.
The material swamped me, of course, with the end of the jacket coming to the tops of my thighs.
He was afraid of it smelling bad, but it just smelled like him—sweet with a hint of grass underneath it all.
Logan picked up my wrist, pushed the material of the jacket back to expose my hand, and wound his fingers around mine. “Perfect,” he murmured, his velvet tone warming me more than the jacket could’ve. “Ready?”
My pulse picked up its pace at the connection, and I gripped him like a lifeline. “Ready.”
They were finishing up the national anthem when we got to the fence line, and the boys all slid their helmets on quietly.
Vastly different from the Bobcat field, where they hooped and hollered their way to the starting line.
In fact, it was all quiet—even the parents in the bleachers seemed to sit patiently, as if encouraging their players was uncivilized.
Even the bleachers for the visiting team were cheering a little. Chesterville’s section was small, too, but at least a little vocal.
“Are all your games like this?” I whispered to Logan, sneaking peeks at the bleachers.
“Like what?”
“So… dead.”
Logan rested his arms on the top of the chain-link fence but turned his head, analyzing the crowd. “Kind of. Varsity games are a bit more lively, I guess, but nothing too wild.”
The crowd couldn’t be more opposite of wild if they tried. “No cheerleaders,” I found myself murmuring, taking another glance at the bleachers. “No student section.”
“It is kiddo football.”
It just made me kind of… sad. Football was fun on its own, of course, but it was the energy that everyone seemed to share that surged everything further, right?
I propped my weight against the fence, my arm brushing Logan’s. “What number are we looking for?”
He leaned into me further, pointing at the field, letting my eyes follow his finger. “Thirteen.”
“Your number?”
Logan chuckled. “He was super excited that we matched.”
I only had to scan for a moment before spotting the black number on the bright red jersey.
Number 13 was the smallest out of all the players, like he could’ve passed for an elementary student rather than middle school.
His cleats were already covered in mud; everyone’s were.
The field was mucky from the rain shower, but, like Brentwood, apparently Jefferson games were held rain or shine.