Chapter 1
By the time the stadium lights come on, my cheeks hurt from smiling. Not because I’m unhappy. I’m not. I have no reason to be unhappy. The Westbridge Wolves are winning, the September air smells like cut grass and cold metal bleachers, and my boyfriend is currently standing on the football field with his helmet tucked under one arm while half the campus chants his name.
Cole. Cole. Cole.
The sound rolls through Wolfe Field like thunder. I stand on the sideline in my navy and silver cheer uniform, white bow tight in my hair, silver pom-poms gripped in both hands, and I smile so wide I can feel the ache behind it, because that is what I do.
I smile. I cheer. I clap when I’m supposed to clap, dance when the music starts, and pretend I don’t notice the girls in the front row screaming my boyfriend’s name like I’m not standing twenty feet away from them.
Mia Torres notices, though. Mia notices everything.
She lands beside me after a jump, her dark ponytail swinging over one shoulder, lips glossy, eyeliner sharp enough to wound someone. She is barely out of breath, which is unfair because we just finished a full sideline routine and I feel like my lungs are trying to escape through my ribs.
“Section three, second row,” she says without moving her smile.
I keep my eyes on the field. “What?”
“The blonde in the white crop top. She’s been yelling Cole’s name like he personally paid her tuition.”
“Mia!” I say still smiling.
“What?” She shakes her pom-poms and grins at the crowd like she isn’t actively planning a girl’s downfall. “I’m observant.”
“You’re dramatic.” I brush her off.
“I’m captain. It’s part of the job.” She finally shoots a glance towards me.
I bite back a laugh because Coach Harris is watching from near the bench, arms crossed over her Westbridge Cheer jacket, eyes scanning us like she can sense rebellion from fifty feet away, and with Mia, she probably can.
Mia Torres is the kind of girl who makes people feel like life is a party they weren’t cool enough to be invited to. She is loud, fearless, beautiful, and somehow always standing in the center of every room like she was born under a spotlight. If I’m soft corners and quiet apologies, Mia is glitter, fire alarms, and the first person to say what everyone else is too scared to.
She’s been my best friend since freshman orientation when she caught me crying in a bathroom stall because I couldn’t find my residence building and then announced, very seriously, that girls who cry over campus maps deserve iced coffee and a better support system. She’s been my support system ever since.
“Don’t look now,” she says, still smiling. “But your golden boy is staring.”
My stomach does a stupid little flip before I can stop it. Cole stands near the forty-yard line, his navy jersey stretched across his shoulders, silver number nine shining under the lights. His hair is damp from his helmet, dark blond strands pushed back from his forehead, and even from here I can see the smile that has made half of Westbridge forgive him for things they never should.
Not that there’s anything to forgive. Rumors don’t count as truth. Cole lifts two fingers toward me. A small gesture. Almost nothing, but the girls in the front row notice. So do two of his teammates. So does Mia, who makes a low sound in her throat.
I wave back.
The crowd screams again as the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers. “Touchdown by Westbridge quarterback Cole Weston!” The stadium erupts.
Mia leans closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “There he is. King Weston blessing the peasants.”
“Stop.” I laugh, but my cheeks warm anyway, because Cole is not a king. He’s just Cole… and my boyfriend.
The boy who walks me to class when it rains. The boy who texts me before every game. The boy who kisses my forehead in public and tells everyone I’m the best thing that ever happened to him. The boy people love to talk about because people love ruining beautiful things.
Another cheer starts, and Mia’s voice snaps into captain mode. “Ready?”
I nod.
She yells. “Five, six, seven, eight!”
Our bodies move together like we’re one heartbeat. Arms high. Step. Clap. Turn. Smile. Always smile.
The stands blur into navy and silver as we perform. Westbridge University sprawls beyond the stadium: old brick academic buildings, glowing campus lamps, maple trees already turning red at the tips. The air has that Ontario fall bite to it, cold enough to sting my bare arms but not cold enough for my breath to show yet.
I love this time of year. The world feels clean in September. Like maybe everyone gets to begin again.
The whistle blows. The game clock runs out. The Wolves win by twelve, and the football team storms the field like they’ve just conquered a country instead of another university from two hours away.
Mia throws both arms in the air. “That’s a win, ladies!”
The squad cheers. The stadium lights shine down on us, bright and hot, and for a second, everything feels exactly the way it’s supposed to. Westbridge is beautiful. Cole is victorious. Mia is laughing, and I am standing inside the life everyone tells me I’m lucky to have.
So why does luck sometimes feel so much like pressure? I push the thought away before it can settle. I’m good at pushing thoughts away.
“Lila!” Cole’s voice cuts through the noise.
I turn just as he jogs toward me, helmet in one hand, sweat shining along his temples. He looks like a college brochure come to life: tall, athletic, handsome, golden under the lights. The kind of boy mothers smile at and fathers trust too quickly.
The kind of boy girls like me are supposed to want, and I do want him. Of course I do.
Cole reaches me and drops his helmet onto the grass before pulling me into his arms. I laugh as my pom-poms get crushed between us.
“You won,” I say, admiring him. He smells like grass, sweat, and the mint gum he always chews before games.
He grins down at me. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not.” I laugh. “You always win”
“Good.” He bends his head and kisses me in front of everyone. The crowd around us whistles.
Heat rushes up my neck. I’m used to Cole being affectionate in public, but I still never know what to do with all the eyes. With all the phones. With all the girls watching like they’re deciding if I deserve him.
Cole’s hand spreads across my lower back, firm and confident. I kiss him back because that’s what girlfriends do after big games. They kiss the boy everyone is cheering for.
When he pulls away, he keeps one arm around my waist and turns us slightly toward a teammate who is shouting something about the after-party.
“Row house tonight?” the guy calls.
Cole laughs. “Obviously.”
My smile falters before I can fix it. Parties on The Row are loud. Crowded. Messy. Full of football players who think personal space is a suggestion and girls who look at Cole like I’m a temporary inconvenience.
Cole glances down at me. “You’ll come, right?”
I hesitate for half a second. Just half. His smile doesn’t disappear, but something behind it tightens. “It’s kind of loud there,” I say carefully.
His thumb presses into my waist. Not hard. Just enough for me to notice. “Babe, we just won. Don’t make me celebrate without my girl.”
My girl. The words should make me feel warm. Most of the time they do. Tonight, they sit strangely in my chest. Before I can answer, Mia appears beside us like she’s been summoned by my discomfort.
“Don’t worry, Weston,” she says, flipping her ponytail. “I’ll bring your girl, but if your teammates spill beer on my shoes again, I’m committing a crime.”
Cole laughs, charming and easy. “Good to see you too, Torres.”
“It is always good to see me.” She flips her ponytail off her shoulder.
He looks back at me, still smiling. “See? Even Mia wants to go.”
Mia opens her mouth, probably to say she absolutely did not say that, but I bump her foot with mine.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll come for a little bit.”
Cole’s grin widens. “That’s my girl.” He kisses my forehead, and the tight thing in my chest loosens because he’s happy again.
I like when Cole is happy. Happy Cole is soft. Warm. Easy. Happy Cole doesn’t make me feel like I’ve stepped wrong without knowing where the line was.
His gaze dips over my uniform, and for a second, I think he’s going to say I look pretty.
Instead, his brows pull together. “Did they make the skirts shorter this year?”
I blink. “What?”
He tugs lightly at the hem, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “This uniform. It’s shorter than last season’s.”
My cheeks burn, but not the good kind. “It’s the same uniform.”
His eyes lift toward the stands. “A lot of guys were staring.”
Mia goes still beside me.
I swallow. “I can’t really control where people look.”
“I know.” His smile returns quickly, smooth as glass. “I’m not blaming you. I just don’t like other guys looking at what’s mine.”
What’s mine. He says it teasingly. Playfully. Like a boyfriend jealous in a cute way. So I smile because that is how I’m supposed to take it.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say.
“I’m serious.” He taps the tip of my nose. “But you look beautiful.”
There it is. The sweet part. The part that makes the uncomfortable part seem smaller.
Cole leans closer, his voice softening. “I just care about you, Lila.”
“I know.” And I do know.
Cole cares. He checks on me. He calls me beautiful. He remembers my coffee order. He tells me not to walk alone at night. He asks who I’m with, where I am, when I’ll be home. That’s caring. Isn’t it?
Mia’s eyes find mine, sharp and unreadable, but she doesn’t say anything. Not here. Not in front of him.
The football team starts chanting Cole’s name again, dragging him away before the moment can become anything heavier. He kisses me one more time, quick and possessive, then jogs back toward his teammates.
The second he’s out of earshot, Mia turns to me. “Nope.”
I pretend not to understand. “Nope what?”
“Nope to whatever that was.” She snaps.
“Mia.”
She plants one hand on her hip. “Don’t Mia me. He just inspected your skirt like he was head of campus security.”
“He was joking.” I try to soften the moment.
“He was not joking.” She says in disbelief.
“He said I looked beautiful.” I state.
“After making you feel weird first.” Her voice drops, softer but no less firm. “That’s not the same thing.”
My stomach twists. I hate when Mia talks like this. Not because she’s wrong. Not exactly, but because she says things out loud that I work very hard not to hear inside my own head.
“He’s just protective,” I say.
Mia’s expression changes. Not angry. Worried, and somehow that’s worse. “Lila.”
I bend to grab my water bottle from the grass. “Please don’t.”
She exhales through her nose, looking toward the field where Cole is laughing with his teammates. “Fine. Not tonight.”
I straighten, relieved.
Then she points a manicured finger at me. “But I’m saying it tomorrow with caffeine and hand gestures.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
“There she is,” Mia says, bumping her shoulder into mine. “My sweet little denial cupcake.”
“I’m not in denial.” I bump her shoulder back.
“Sure. And I’m shy.” She laughs. Mia is the opposite of shy.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling again, and that is Mia’s magic. She can drag me toward uncomfortable truths and then make me laugh before I bleed on them.
The squad gathers near Coach Harris for our quick post-game meeting. Coach is in her early forties, with sleek black hair pulled into a bun and the posture of someone who could silence a room by breathing differently.
“Good work tonight,” she says. “Energy was strong. Timing was cleaner than last week. Mia, excellent leadership.”
Mia beams. “Naturally.”
Coach gives her a look. Mia’s smile becomes innocent.
“Lila,” Coach says, turning to me. “Your basket timing was beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I smile.
“Keep that control. Flyers set the tone.”
I nod, warmth spreading through me.
I love cheer. People think it’s just smiling and waving pom-poms. They don’t see the bruises on hips from cradles, the sore wrists, the trust it takes to throw your body into the air and believe someone will be there when gravity remembers you. Maybe that’s why I love it. For three seconds in the air, I don’t belong to anyone. Not Cole. Not my past. Not my fear. Just the music, the lights, and the impossible feeling of flying.
Coach dismisses us, and the girls scatter toward the locker room, chattering about the party, homework, and which football player looked hottest tonight.
Mia loops her arm through mine as we walk. “So,” she says, drawing the word out.
“No.” I stop her immediately.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.” She frowns.
“You’re going to say something about Cole.” I put my hands on my hips.
“Well, now I have to, because you guessed it.” She shrugs her shoulders.
“Mia.” I say annoyed.
“Lila.” She mocks me.
I glance at her. “Can we just have one good night?”
Her face softens, and guilt immediately pinches me. Mia is not trying to ruin my night. She’s trying to protect me. She always is. “Okay,” she says quietly. “One good night.”
The locker room is warm, loud, and humid with hairspray and perfume. I change out of my uniform into jeans and a cream sweater while Mia debates between two tops she somehow fit inside her gym bag. One is black and sparkly. The other is red and basically has no back.
She holds them up. “Party girl or heartbreaker?”
“You’re asking like those are different categories for you.”
Her grin is wicked. “I raised you well.”
I laugh and pull my sweater over my head. The fabric is soft against my skin, comforting in a way I don’t know how to explain. I like soft things. Soft sweaters. Soft blankets. Soft voices. Soft hands. The world has enough hard edges.
My phone buzzes on the bench.
Cole: Wear the white top tonight.
I stare at the message. Mia peeks over my shoulder before I can hide it.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not a big deal.” I put my phone away.
“Did he just outfit-request you like you’re a Build-A-Girlfriend?” She laughs.
“Mia.” I don’t laugh with her.
“What? I’m asking for legal reasons.” She teases.
I type back slowly.
Me: I already changed into my sweater. It’s cold.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Cole: Babe it’s a party not church lolCole: You look hot in the white one
I look down at my cream sweater. It’s not ugly. It’s nice. Simple. Warm. It’s me.
Mia is watching me now, all jokes gone. “You don’t have to change,” she says.
“I know.” But my fingers are already opening my bag.
Mia’s mouth tightens. “Lila.”
“It’s fine.” I sigh.
“It’s not fine if you don’t want to.” She reminds me.
“It’s just a shirt.” The words come out too quickly. Too practiced. A memory flickers before I can stop it.
My mother standing in front of a bedroom mirror, changing from a red blouse into a gray sweater because my father said the red made her look like she wanted attention. I was nine. Maybe ten. I remember sitting on the bed, pretending to read a book upside down while she wiped at her eyes and told me she just liked the gray one better. I remember believing her because children believe the version of the truth that hurts less.
My fingers freeze on the zipper of my bag.
“Lila?” Mia’s voice is softer now.
I blink the memory away. “I forgot the white top,” I lie.
Mia sees the lie. I know she does, but she doesn’t push.
Instead, she grabs the black sparkly top and turns toward the mirror. “Good. Because if Cole Weston has opinions about women’s fashion, he can start with those ugly boat shoes he wore last week.”
A laugh escapes me, shaky but real.
