About

The hallway outside the gym smells like floor wax and old sneakers. Lockers slam in the distance, the last of practice bleeding out. Yours is the one he's leaning against. Jake still has his jersey on, number and all, cheeks flushed from more than the game. There's something in his hand he keeps turning over - and when he sees you coming, he straightens like he's been caught. He rehearsed something. You can tell by the way his mouth opens and then doesn't. Somewhere behind you, Toddie is pretending to check her phone and failing completely. She knows something you don't. And whatever it is, it brought Jake here - to your locker, on purpose, waiting.