Chapter 9
Baptiste
We move as a loose pack through colorful rows of game stands, teasing each other and laughing.
Neon lights blink overhead, bells ringing every time someone wins a prize.
The air smells like sugar, grease, and asphalt that’s been baking in the July heat all day.
Somewhere behind us, music thumps from a stage, the bass notes vibrating through the ground.
“All right,” Adler says, clapping his hands together. “Ring bottle toss. Wifey, you’re up.”
Beth just rolls her eyes. “Fine, let’s do it.”
All my money is on Adler—who’s obnoxiously confident, landing one of three rings—but the second Beth steps up, calm and focused, I know he’s in trouble.
She tosses the rings with surgical precision.
One lands. Then another.
And another.
The bell chimes, loud and crisp.
“Oh no,” Beaumont says, laughing already. “This is not looking good for you, man.”
Beth turns around, hands on her hips. “Told you.”
Adler groans dramatically. “I was distracted.”
“By what?” Marissa asks. “Your massive ego?”
Everyone laughs as Adler throws his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. Next game.”
He turns to Beaumont and jabs a finger at him. “You. Make this right.”
Beaumont and Hayley go head-to-head on a water gun game, him going first—and having decent success. But none of us are prepared for what follows. Hayley leans in, jaw set, and absolutely demolishes her round—ducks dropping one by one in record time.
“I am both deeply offended that I lost,” Beaumont says, pulling her toward him, “and incredibly impressed by your sharpshooting skills.”
He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Also… a little scared. Not gonna lie.”
Hayley just grins.
“Hoops,” Miles announces, pointing at the next stall. “Who’s up?”
“We’ll go,” I say, stepping forward and glancing at Harper.
I’m not particularly good at basketball, but I am eager to play Harper. And if we keep losing at this rate, I won’t even get the chance.
“Are you sure?” Beaumont asks. “All our hopes rest on your shoulders, bro.”
“Yeah,” Harper says, crossing her arms. “I’d think twice about this one. I did play pro in my early years.”
Her eyes sparkle with teasing.
“You’re lying,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t forget—the whole team has been media trained. We know better than to trust journalists.”
She bubbles with laughter, the sound bright and effortless, and something in my chest tightens.
She steps into the taped-off square, arms crossed, lifting her chin like she’s preparing for battle instead of a low-stakes game of carnival hoops. I take my place next to her, the narrow space suddenly feeling way too small.
The attendant hands us the balls. They’re lighter than regulation basketballs, rubbery, slightly sticky from too many hands and spilled soda.
“Ready?” the attendant asks.
Harper rolls her shoulders. “Born ready.”
The buzzer goes off, and my adrenaline spikes.
She starts fast. Really fast.
I blink once, and she’s already sunk three shots, barely even looking at the hoop—just grab, throw, grab, throw—her movements sharp and efficient.
Of course she’s competitive.
Of course she’s good at this.
I pick up my pace, muscles kicking into something familiar, automatic. My shots land cleanly, one after the other, but she’s not slowing down, lips pressed together in concentration, a strand of hair escaping her ponytail and sticking to her temple.
The noise around us fades as we keep landing shots. All I can hear is the thud of balls hitting the backboard, the clang of rims, the buzzer ticking down.
Suddenly, one of her shots ricochets hard off the rim, rebounds at the wrong angle, and smacks her square in the cheek.
“Ouch!”
She stumbles back half a step, a hand flying to her face.
I drop my ball without a second thought, lunging toward her. “Are you okay?”
She winces, eyes watering, and I swear my heart lodges somewhere in my throat.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, blinking back the moisture. “It just—”
I’m already at her side, my hand hovering uselessly, not sure if I’m allowed to touch her.
“Let me see,” I say, my voice lower now.
She looks up at me.
And then… she smiles.
A quick, wicked grin.
And while I’m still frozen there, distracted and worried, she pivots, grabs another ball, and sinks two rapid shots in a row.
The buzzer goes off.
“Time!” the attendant bellows.
The crowd erupts.
“Cheater!” I bark, half-laughing, half-offended.
She wheels around to face me, triumphant. “You stopped playing. That’s on you.”
My jaw drops. “You faked an injury!”
“I took advantage of your lack of focus,” she counters. “Very different.”
Our arms brush as we both step back, the contact brief but electric, and for the span of a half second, I wish we really were here on a date—just us—not trapped in this ridiculous not-friends thing that’s happening completely against my will.
Our gazes cross, and we both pause, something unspoken hanging there…
And then Hawthorne slaps me on the back.
“It’s all right, bro.”
“No way,” Miles says, groaning. “You’re paying.”
“What happened to we’re a team?” I fire back, gesturing between us. “I didn’t lose this on my own, you know.”
“We don’t care who’s paying,” Marissa says, grinning. “As long as it’s not us.”
The guys groan, and the girls cheer obnoxiously.
As we step aside to let the next group play, I narrow my eyes at Harper.
“You’re ruthless,” I mutter. “You know that?”
“It’s called seizing the opportunity.” She winks. “Now I’ve scored myself a nice dinner tomorrow night. And you’d better believe I’ll go for the most expensive thing on the menu.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”
The girls may be the ones celebrating, but I don’t think I lost tonight.
If anything, I gained something invaluable.
More time with Harper.
We play a few more games, even though our team’s fate is already sealed. At this point, it’s just stubborn pride and muscle memory. We lose gloriously, loudly, and with a lot of trash talk.
What can I say? We’re hockey players. We don’t quit just because the scoreboard tells us to.
Eventually, it’s time for the fireworks show, and we follow the flow of the crowd toward the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool to try to snag a spot.
But of course it’s packed. And of course we can’t do anything without arguing.
“Too close to the water,” Miles complains.
“Too far from the screen,” Adler counters.
“Do you want to actually see the fireworks or just whine about them?” Beth snaps.
Finally, Aria drops down onto the grass with a dramatic sigh.
“I’m sitting,” she announces. “Anyone who wants to keep walking is welcome to wander around until sunrise.”
That settles it.
We all lower ourselves onto the plush lawn, passing around jackets to sit on. I end up next to Harper, close enough that our arms brush when we shift our bodies. The grass is still warm from the day, slightly damp, the scent of earth and summer rising as more people sit down around us.
Families wander past. Some kids are waving glow sticks, others already perched on parents’ shoulders. A little boy in light-up sneakers stops near us, staring openly.
“Hey! You’re hockey players!”
His little brother comes barreling right after him, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“Hey, bud,” Hawthorne says with a grin, crouching to his level. “What’s your name?”
The boy glances at his parents, as if suddenly wondering if it’s okay to talk to strangers. His dad smiles encouragingly.
“My name’s Jordan,” he says proudly. “And this is my brother, Carl.”
“Hey, guys,” we all say, waving at them.
“Do you play hockey?” I ask the pint-sized kiddos, smiling despite myself.
“Uh-huh.” Jordan nods eagerly. “Started this year. I’ll be in the NHL too, one day.”
“I’m sure you will,” Adler says. “Make sure you train hard, okay? But only if you love it.”
“I want to play hockey too,” little Carl declares, the determined scowl on his tiny face making all of us laugh.
“You wanted to play baseball, honey,” his mom says, kissing his forehead.
“Now I want to play hockey,” he insists, crossing his arms.
“Okay,” Miles says, nodding. “But baseball is cool too. If that’s what you like, go for it.”
“Yeah,” Beaumont adds. “All sports are fun. We chose hockey because that’s what we loved.”
“And because it’s the only thing you can remotely do,” Adler jabs.
Beaumont opens his mouth, clearly ready to fire back, then stops himself and smiles at the kids instead.
“Can we take a picture?” Jordan asks, his eyes fixed on me.
“Of course, bud,” I say. Before I even get the words out, he rushes toward me, throwing his arms around my waist in a quick, fierce hug.
I take him into my arms and he whispers, “You’re my favorite.”
My heart squeezes so hard it might burst. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “That means a lot to me.”
He steps back, eyes shining with tears of joy, and we pose while his parents take a picture. Then he moves down the line, getting photos with everyone else.
I feel Harper’s gaze on me, warm and curious.
I turn to her. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says, smiling in a way that feels dangerously soft. “I just didn’t know you were so good with kids.”
Something twists low in my chest. I wish I could show her all of me. Strip away the assumptions, the labels, the pre-formed idea she has of who I am.
“Yeah,” I say, waving goodbye as Jordan, Carl, and their parents walk off. “They’re our cutest fans. The most honest ones too.”
Beaumont snorts. “You’re just saying that because he said you were his favorite.”
I roll my eyes, and of course, we immediately start bickering again about who has the most fans, and it ends with the girls settling the debate by adding up our followers on our social media platforms.
Finally, the chatter around us fades as the lights dim along the river. The fireworks should be starting any minute. Couples start leaning into each other without thinking—Miles with Marissa tucked against his side, Beaumont’s arm draped around Hayley, Aria and Caleb sharing a quiet kiss.
I sit there, hands planted on my thighs, fighting every instinct. Because if I move even an inch, I might do something stupid. Like lean toward Harper. Or kiss her.
A sudden cheer ripples through the crowd as the first firework shoots into the sky, a bright streak cutting through the darkness before exploding into a shower of white and gold.
Harper jolts slightly beside me at the unexpected boom, her shoulder bumping into my arm. She laughs under her breath.
“Sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I reply, my voice lower than I expect.
Another firework goes off—red this time, blooming wide—and she instinctively leans closer. Our shoulders are fully touching now, and I’m fully aware of her warmth radiating through the thin fabric of her shirt, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing.
I turn my head at the same moment she does.
We’re suddenly close.
Too close.
Her gaze flicks to my mouth. Mine drops to hers. The world narrows to the space between us, the boom and crackle of fireworks dulling, fading.
Just an inch closer—
Then, a massive firework detonates right overhead, the sound ripping through the air, lighting up the sky in blinding cobalt.
Harper startles, laughing again and pulling back just enough to break the moment.
“Wow.” She tears her eyes from mine and looks skyward. “That one was loud.”
“Yeah,” I manage, forcing myself to breathe, to watch the sky instead of her.
The fireworks continue, filling the night with dazzling color and chest-shaking booms under the oohs and aahs of the crowd.
All the while, I sit there beside Harper, heart pounding, wondering how long I can keep pretending that I’m not falling for her.