Marcus
I’d seen her in the stands before the game. Wrapped up in that gray sweater, sitting so still, like she was trying not to exist. Her eyes were on the court, but they weren’t really watching. And even from where I stood, warming up with the team, I could feel it—something about her presence pulled at me.
She didn’t cheer. She didn’t smile. She didn’t look at me once.
And weirdly, that got to me more than if she had.
Before the game started, my dad pulled me aside, doing his usual routine—talking about Branson being there, scouting, how this was a big deal for my future. He threw in a few lines about “how’s it going with the daughter,” like Betty was part of some plan.
I nodded like I was listening, but truthfully? I wasn’t sure what I felt anymore. It used to be so simple. Get close to her. Make it convincing. Make her dad notice me. But now, every time I looked at her, the lines blurred.
I’m not gonna lie—getting elbowed in the nuts by Betty Branson was not on my bingo card for the night. But that’s how halftime ended for me: on the tile floor of the girls’ bathroom, one hand on my stomach, the other guarding what was left of my dignity.
And honestly? I wasn’t mad.
She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t crumble like I might’ve expected after everything. She reacted. Fast, instinctive, like someone who knew how to protect herself.
And that did something to me I couldn’t explain.
It wasn’t just about getting hit. It was that she didn’t freeze. That she had fight in her.
She used to walk around school like a shadow. Quiet. Forgettable. Easy to ignore. But now? She wasn’t that girl anymore.
She wasn’t just a piece of a strategy anymore. She was sharp. Brave. Real.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
***
After the game I saw her outside in the parking lot—alone, standing under one of those buzzing overhead lights—I started walking toward her without even thinking.
I didn’t have a reason. I just did.
She saw me coming and stiffened, arms folded tighter across her chest like armor. I slowed down.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Hi,” she answered, barely glancing up.
I wanted to say something casual, but nothing came out right.
“You good?” I asked instead.
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t. That much was obvious. And neither was I.
“I didn’t mean to freak you out earlier,” I said. “That wasn’t... I just wanted to talk.”
“I know,” she said. “But I don’t know what any of this is anymore.”
I nodded. “Me neither.”
She looked surprised by that.
“I’m not trying to play games,” I added, though I wasn’t even sure if that was the whole truth. “I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time.”
Betty crossed her arms again and stared at the pavement.
“I liked kissing you,” I said, before I could stop myself.
She blinked, then looked away like the words made her uncomfortable.
“I just don’t know if you mean it,” she said softly. “You’re good at acting like you care. That’s kind of your thing.”
That one hit. Not because it wasn’t fair, but because she said it without bitterness. Just honesty.
And I didn’t have a good answer.
So I stepped forward and kissed her again.
Slow. Careful. Not to prove anything, not to win, not for my dad—who, yeah, was definitely still watching from across the lot. I kissed her because she was right there, and something in me wanted to.
She didn’t kiss me back. Not really.
But she didn’t pull away either.
And for now, that was enough.