Practice is brutal. Not because of the stunts or the conditioning, but because he's right there. Forty yards away. Running drills like he was born on this field, like the grass is holy ground and he's the god of it.

I'm in my cheer skirt, the fabric barely covering the curve of my hips. My top is see-through today. Pale pink mesh that clings to every hollow and swell. I can feel the autumn air on my nipples. I know everyone can see them. I used to love that. The power of it.

Now I just feel exposed. Like every part of me is on display except the parts that matter.

We're running through the same routine for the third time. Coach wants the pyramid tighter, the toss higher. My body obeys. My arms lock. My legs bend. But my eyes keep drifting to the field, to number eighteen, to the way his shoulder pads sit wide on his frame like armor he never takes off.

He doesn't look at the sideline. Not once.

"You're gonna break your neck if you keep staring at him instead of the sky."

I blink. Turn. It's one of the football players. Out of uniform, just sweatpants and a practice jersey. He's holding a water bottle, grinning at me like we share a secret I didn't know we had.

"Marcus," he says, offering his hand. "We're in the same econ class. You sit two rows behind me."

I shake it. His grip is warm. Firm. "Bella."

"I know who you are." His grin widens. "Everyone knows who you are."

It's not a creepy line. It's just true. And he says it like it's a good thing. Like being seen by everyone is a blessing instead of a cage.

"You looked good out there," he says, nodding toward the cheer mat. "That toss you caught? I thought you were gonna eat dirt, but you stuck it."

I laugh. Surprised. Real. "So did I."

"Nah. You're too steady for that."

Easy. That's what this feels like. Easy conversation with a boy who looks at me like I'm the sun. No cold shoulders. No flinches. Just easy. I feel the knot in my chest loosen a fraction.

And then I feel it. The weight of a stare.

I know it before I turn. Before my skin pricks. Before my spine straightens.

I don't look. Not yet. I keep my eyes on Marcus, let my lips curve into a smile I don't have to fake. "You really think I'm steady?"

"I know you are."

Now I look. Slow. Casual. Like I'm just scanning the field.

River is standing at the forty-yard line. His helmet is off, tucked under his arm. His jaw is tight. The vein in his temple is visible. He's not looking at the play. He's looking at me. At Marcus. At the space between us that's smaller than it should be.

I feel it. That stupid flutter. That treacherous hope that rises in my chest like it owns me, like I didn't spend last night crying in my car, like I didn't promise myself I was done.

His eyes meet mine. For one second. Two.

Then he turns away. Grabs his helmet. Shoves it on. His voice cuts through the field, barking at a receiver who ran the wrong route.

The flutter dies.

He was watching. That doesn't mean he cares. It means he noticed. There's a difference. There's always a difference.

"You okay?" Marcus asks.

I look back at him. He's frowning slightly, following the line of my gaze.

"Fine," I say. "Just tired."

"Practice ends in twenty. You want to grab something to eat? There's a diner off Main. Best milkshakes in town."

A week ago, I'd have said no. A week ago, I'd have made up an excuse. I'd have kept my eyes fixed on the field, waiting for a glance that never came.

But the library door is still fresh in my memory. The way he left. The way he couldn't get away from me fast enough.

I'm tired of starving.

"Yeah," I say. "That sounds nice."

Marcus beams. It's a good smile. Warm. Uncomplicated.

I don't look back at the field. I don't give River the satisfaction of seeing me watch him walk away.

But I hear the whistle blow. I hear the coach yelling. And somewhere in the chaos, I hear his voice again. Louder this time. Sharper. He's chewing out another player for a missed block. It's not like him. River is cold, not loud. He doesn't waste energy on noise.

I want to believe it's because of me. I want to believe he's jealous.

The thought burns in my chest like a fever. Hot and dangerous and desperate.

No. I crush it. I bury it. I breathe through the ache until it settles back into its usual place, heavy and familiar, a stone I carry everywhere.

Hope has betrayed me too many times. I can't afford to trust it again.

---

Practice ends. The team filters off the field, pads creaking, voices echoing in the cooling air. I'm packing my bag, rolling my pompoms into a neat cylinder, when I see him.

River is at the far end of the bleachers. Alone. His helmet is off again. His hair is dark with sweat, sticking to his forehead. He's not looking at me. He's looking at the ground, one hand braced on his knee, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

I should walk away. I should go find Marcus. I should keep my promise to myself.

Instead, I walk toward him.

"River."

He doesn't look up.

"River, I—"

"Don't."

One word. Cut glass. So sharp I feel it in my chest.

He straightens. His eyes finally meet mine, and there's something there. Something raw. Something that twists in my gut because I can't name it. Anger? Pain? Both? Neither?

"Don't what?" I ask. My voice is steadier than I feel.

"Don't pretend you want to talk to me. You made your choice."

I blink. "My choice?"

He gestures toward the field, toward the spot where Marcus was standing. "Him. You chose him. So go."

"You pushed me away," I say. The words come out cracked. "Every single time. You flinch when I get close. You leave when I sit next to you. You didn't even give me a minute in the library. You just—left."

His jaw tightens. Something flickers in his eyes. Guilt? Regret? I can't tell. He's a locked door, and I don't have the key.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he says.

"Then help me understand." I step closer. "Tell me why. Tell me what I did wrong. Tell me what I am to you, because I don't—" My voice breaks. "I don't know anymore. I don't know if I'm someone you want or someone you're trying to escape."

He's quiet for a long moment. The wind picks up, carrying the smell of cut grass and sweat. His knuckles are white where he's gripping his helmet.

He doesn't say anything.

The silence stretches into something unbearable. I feel my eyes sting. I blink it back. I won't cry in front of him. Not again. Not here.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."

I turn around.

"Bella."

I stop. My heart slams against my ribs.

"Stay away from Marcus."

It's not a question. It's not a plea. It's a command. Low and rough and possessive in a way I've never heard from him before.

I look over my shoulder.

He's still standing there. Still gripping his helmet. But his eyes are on me, and there's something naked in them. Something he's trying to hide and failing.

"Why?" I ask.

He doesn't answer.

"Why, River?"

He looks away. His jaw works. I watch him swallow the words, whatever they are, shove them back down into whatever place he keeps everything he won't give me.

I wait. One breath. Two. Three.

Nothing.

I walk away.

My hands are shaking. My vision blurs. I wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist and keep walking.

Marcus is waiting by the fence. He smiles when he sees me. "Ready?"

I think about River. About the way he said my name. About the way he told me to stay away from Marcus but couldn't tell me why. About the hope that's clawing its way back up my throat, desperate and bleeding and so, so stupid.

I kill it. Again. I bury it deeper this time, where it can't reach me.

"Ready," I say.

I don't look back.

But I hear his footsteps on the bleachers, heavy and slow. I know the rhythm of them. I've been listening to them for two years.

He's still standing there. Watching me leave with someone else.

It should feel like victory.

It feels like drowning.

Marcus picks me up at seven. He's wearing a clean button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he smells like soap and something woodsy. He opens the passenger door for me. Actually opens it. Waits until I'm settled before closing it gently.

I don't know what to do with that.

The restaurant is a small Italian place tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. Red-checkered tablecloths. Candles in wine bottles. The kind of place that feels intentional, like he thought about where to take me instead of just picking somewhere close.

"Hope you like pasta," he says, pulling out my chair.

"I like everything."

He smiles. "Good answer."

It's easy with him. Scarily easy. He asks about cheerleading, about my favorite classes, about the dumbest thing I've ever seen in the hallway. He laughs when I tell him about the kid who walked into a glass door last week, and his laugh is warm, unguarded, nothing like the tight-lipped almost-smiles I've spent years chasing.

I catch myself smiling back. Real smiles. The kind that reach my eyes without me having to force them.

"You're different than I thought you'd be," he says, twirling pasta around his fork.

"What did you think?"

He shrugs. "Honestly? That you'd be harder to talk to. You're kind of untouchable at school. Everyone stares, but no one really knows you."

The observation lands somewhere soft in my chest. "I'm not that complicated."

"I don't believe that."

I look down at my plate. The candlelight catches the wine in my glass, turning it amber. "Maybe I don't want to be complicated tonight."

"Fair enough." He raises his glass. "To uncomplicated nights."

I clink my glass against his. The sound is small and bright. It feels like the first right thing I've done in months.

He walks me back to his car after dinner, hand resting light on the small of my back. Not grabbing. Not possessive. Just there. Present. Like he wants to be touching me but doesn't want to presume.

River has never touched me like that. River has never touched me at all.

I shove the thought down.

"I had a good time," Marcus says, leaning against the driver's door. "Like, genuinely good. I'd like to do this again."

"I'd like that too."

His smile widens. He doesn't lean in for a kiss. Doesn't push. Just nods, opens my door, and drives me home with the radio playing something soft and unfamiliar.

When I get inside, I stand in my room for a long time, staring at nothing. My phone buzzes. Marcus: Home safe?

I text back: Yeah. Thank you for tonight.

His reply comes almost instantly: Anytime, Bella.

I should feel happy. I do feel happy. There's a warmth in my chest, small but real, a flicker of something I haven't felt in so long I almost forgot what it looked like.

But underneath it, there's a weight. A guilt I can't name. Because even now, even with Marcus's number glowing on my screen and his laugh still echoing in my ears, I'm thinking about River.

I'm wondering if he's home. If he's thinking about me. If he even noticed I left with Marcus.

I hate myself for it.

The next day at school, I feel Marcus before I see him. His hand brushes my elbow in the hallway, and when I turn, he's smiling down at me like I'm the only person in the building.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning."

He falls into step beside me. We walk to my first class together. People stare. I feel their eyes on us, feel the whispers starting, and I tell myself I don't care what they think.

I almost believe it.

At lunch, Marcus sits with me. His friends join us, and they're loud and easy and they include me in their jokes without making it weird. One of them asks about our date, and Marcus cuts him off with a look that's sharp but not mean. Protective. Like he doesn't want me to feel put on the spot.

I'm not used to being protected.

I'm used to being stared at. Used to being wanted for what I look like, not who I am. Marcus looks at me like he sees both, and I don't know how to carry that.

Then I feel it.

A weight across the cafeteria. A pressure. I don't have to look up to know who it is.

River is standing by the doors, tray in hand, eyes fixed on our table. On me. On Marcus sitting close, shoulder brushing mine, laughing at something I just said.

His jaw is tight. His hand is clenched around the edge of his tray.

I look away. I force myself to look away. I focus on Marcus's smile, on the way he's looking at me like I matter, on the warmth I felt last night that I'm trying so hard to hold onto.

But I can still feel River's eyes on me. Burning. Demanding.

He sits at his usual table, three rows away. He doesn't look at me again. But I feel the space between us like a wound, pulsing and raw, and I hate that I can't stop checking it.

Marcus notices. "You okay?"

"Yeah." The word comes out too fast. "Just tired."

He studies me for a moment. I can tell he doesn't believe me. But he doesn't push. He just reaches under the table and squeezes my hand, once, gentle.

"Let me know if that changes."

I nod. I squeeze back. I tell myself this is what I wanted.

After school, practice is brutal. Coach runs us through the same routine until my legs ache and my lungs burn. I throw myself into every move, trying to exhaust the part of me that keeps looking toward the football field.

River is out there. I can hear the crack of pads, the grunts, the coach's whistle. I don't look. I don't.

But when practice ends and I'm walking toward the parking lot, I see him.

He's standing by the fence. Alone. His helmet is tucked under his arm, his hair is damp with sweat, and he's staring at me with an expression I can't read.

I stop.

He doesn't move.

The distance between us is maybe twenty feet. It feels like a canyon.

"Bella."

His voice is rough. Low. It scrapes against something inside me.

I wait. I don't know what I'm waiting for. An apology. An explanation. Something that makes the last two years make sense.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw works.

"You with him now?"

The question lands like a slap. Not because it's cruel, but because it's not. It's careful. Hesitant. Like he's afraid of the answer.

I should lie. I should say yes, because maybe that will finally break this thing between us, whatever it is, whatever it's been. Maybe if I say yes, he'll stop looking at me like that, and I'll stop feeling like I'm bleeding every time he does.

But I can't.

"I don't know," I say. "Maybe."

His eyes close. Just for a second. When they open, the storm is back, harder than before. "He's not good for you."

I laugh. It's bitter and sharp and it cuts my throat on the way out. "And you are?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what are you saying, River?" My voice rises. I don't care who hears. "Because I've been standing here for two years, waiting for you to say something, anything, and you've given me nothing. Absolutely nothing. And now, the second someone else wants me, you show up?"

He flinches. Actually flinches, like I hit him.

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?"

He doesn't answer. He never answers. He just stands there, gripping his helmet, looking at me with eyes that hold everything he won't say.

I shake my head. "I can't do this anymore."

"Bella—"

"No." My voice breaks. I let it. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to watch me from across rooms and tell me who I can and can't see. You don't get to look at me like you want me and then act like I don't exist. You had your chance, River. You had so many chances."

I turn away. My hands are shaking. My vision blurs.

"Bella." His voice is closer now. I hear his footsteps on the gravel. "Please."

I stop. I don't turn around.

"Please what?" I whisper.

Silence. The wind picks up, carrying the smell of cut grass and sweat and him.

"Please don't do this," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word.

I close my eyes. I feel the tears spill over, hot and silent, tracking down my cheeks.

He doesn't answer.

Of course he doesn't.

I walk away. I keep walking, past the parking lot, past my car, past everything I know. I walk until I can't hear his footsteps anymore, until the only sound is my own breathing, ragged and broken.

My phone buzzes. Marcus: You okay? Saw you leave practice early.

I stare at the screen. The words blur.

I type back: Yeah. Just tired. Talk tomorrow?

His reply: Always. Get some rest.

I lean against a tree and slide down until I'm sitting on the grass. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It's beautiful. I barely see it.

I think about Marcus. About how easy he is. About how he makes me feel wanted without making me feel desperate.

I think about River. About the way his voice cracked. About the word please, falling from his lips like it cost him something to say it.

I don't know which one scares me more.

The hope that Marcus could be enough.

Or the hope that River might finally be ready to try.