15
Nate
The field party gets louder after midnight.
Not better. Just louder. There’s a distinct difference.
*Better* means the fire stays high, the music doesn’t suck, and no one tries to prove their athletic dominance by jumping over something flammable.
*Louder* means Mason has started yelling the lyrics to every song even when he doesn’t know them, Carter is standing on his truck bed giving an unrequested speech about brotherhood, and someone from the baseball team just dropped an entire bag of marshmallows into the dirt and called it “seasoning.”
So, yeah. Louder.
Hannah is sitting on the tailgate of my truck with Ella and Ava, my jersey still swallowed around her shoulders, one boot hooked on the bumper. She’s holding an unopened water bottle now because she finished her seltzer and apparently decided one was enough.
Smart girl.
She’s laughing at something Ava says, head tilted slightly, blonde hair catching in the firelight.
She looks more comfortable than she did when we first got here.
Not fully relaxed—Hannah Reed has the instincts of someone who triple-checks locks before declaring herself safe—but she isn’t shrinking anymore.
She’s looking around. Taking things in. Every once in a while, she glances toward me. Not for Ethan. Not for the plan. Just to check where I am.
Which I do not enjoy noticing as much as I do.
I’m leaning against the side of the truck, half-listening to Carter tell Mason that “technically, all bonfires are emotionally significant,” when I see Ethan Cross walk into the field.
And because the universe has a flair for inconvenient timing, he’s not alone. He comes down the dirt lane with two guys I’ve seen around campus and a brunette in a cream jacket. Not date-close, but close enough that Hannah’s old version of jealousy would probably start taking attendance.
Ethan looks good. I’ll give him that. Dark jacket. Clean hair. Calm expression. He looks like he’s about to ask someone where the alumni networking tent is.
His eyes sweep the party. He finds Hannah. Then his gaze shifts to me. To my truck. To my jersey on her body.
There it is. The pause. Small, but deliberate.
I straighten from the truck. Carter notices immediately, because God forbid he miss one twitch of drama.
“Student council Ken has entered the chat,” Carter mutters.
I ignore him and look back at Ethan. He’s still watching. Hannah hasn’t seen him yet; she’s leaning toward Ella, laughing into the sleeve of my jersey like she’s trying to hide it.
Time to work.
I push off the truck and walk toward her. She looks up as I approach, her smile lingering. “What?”
“Cross is here.”
Her entire posture changes. Her shoulders pull in. Her hand tightens around her water bottle. She starts to turn her head, but I step in front of her, blocking her view before she can make it obvious.
“Don’t look yet,” I say.
Her gaze snaps back to me. “Is he looking?”
“Yes. Game faces on, Hannah Reed.”
“Game faces?”
“We’re up.” I move closer, between her knees, and slide one hand to her knee. Not high. Not suggestive. Just there, steadying her. Giving him something worth looking at.
Her cheeks go pink. “You’re too comfortable with this,” she whispers.
“And you’re not comfortable enough.” I step into her space, my hands settling on either side of her hips on the edge of the tailgate. Anyone looking over sees exactly what we need them to see: Nate Wilder between Hannah Reed’s legs.
Ethan stops a few feet away. “Hey, Hannah.”
Hannah looks past me. Her expression smooths with effort. “Hey.”
Ethan’s gaze drops to where I’m standing, then to my hand near her knee, then up to my face. Wary. Finally.
“Wilder,” he says.
“Cross.”
“I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” Ethan says to her.
Hannah tucks her hair behind her ear. “It’s new,” she says, her eyes flicking to mine.
“It is,” I add, letting my thumb draw one slow, absent line over the denim of her skirt near her knee.
Ethan sees it. I can tell because his eyes narrow. Not angry, but less polite. Progress.
“Didn’t see that coming,” Ethan says. He stays for another minute of awkward small talk before retreating toward the fire. But he stops near the edge of the light, drink in hand, angled so he can still see us.
I lean closer to Hannah. “Nice work.”
“I feel like I just committed academic dishonesty,” she whispers.
“Social strategy. Different department.”
She presses her lips together, fighting a smile. “You’re impossible.”
I catch her chin lightly between my fingers and guide her face back to me. Her lips part. The space between us changes. Not subtle this time.
A quick kiss would seal it. Enough for Ethan to see. I lower my voice. “Kiss me.”
“Here?”
“People are watching.”
She nods once. Small. Careful.
I lean in slowly. The first touch is soft—a simple brush of my mouth over hers. Public. Gentle. Controlled. I intend to pull back immediately. I really do.
But Hannah’s hand comes up and catches the front of my hoodie. Her fingers tighten. She kisses me back.
Not the streetlamp kiss, tentative and sweet. This is different. Her lips part under mine with the smallest breath, and my body reacts like someone lit a fuse. My hands move from the tailgate to her waist, pulling her closer through the oversized jersey.
She makes a tiny sound against my mouth—a sound that isn't for the crowd. Everything in me tightens. I pull back first, because if I don’t, I might forget there’s a field full of people behind us.
Hannah’s eyes stay closed for a heartbeat. When they open, they’re dazed.
“You good?” I ask, my voice rough.
She blinks. “Yeah.”
I look toward Ethan. He looks away a second too late. That was jealousy. Small, contained, but real.
Mission accomplished. So why does victory feel so tangled?
The party thins out by two in the morning. The fire has burned low, and the cold has sharpened. I slide off the tailgate and hold out a hand to help Hannah down. She takes it, her fingers lingering in mine.
Ethan is still there, watching from the shadows as we walk to the truck. I open the passenger door for her, and before I close it, she looks at me.
“You were right,” she says. “Games are your thing.”
I lean against the doorframe. “Told you.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
As I drive away from the field, the silence of the cab feels heavy. The plan worked. Ethan noticed. People bought the story. Everything went exactly how it was supposed to.
So why do I feel like I’m the one who got played?