Evan's POV
The whistle blows and I'm supposed to be running the play, but my feet are too slow and my head is somewhere else. The ball sails past where I should have been, and Coach's voice explodes across the field.
"Mercer! What the hell was that?" Coach Stevens is red-faced, veins bulging. "You trying to get benched? Because that's how you get benched!"
I jog back to the line, mumbling an apology. My teammates look at me with confusion and concern.
This isn't like me. I'm usually locked in, the one Coach points to as an example. But today I've missed three catches, run the wrong route twice, and nearly collided with our running back.
We run the drill again. And again. By the third time, I execute properly, but Coach keeps us running it four more times to make a point.
When he finally blows the whistle for water break, I'm drenched in sweat and frustration.
I grab my water bottle and collapse onto the bench. Every time I close my eyes I see Lena's face in that hotel room doorway.
The way she looked at Noah and me, like we were something to escape from.
The question neither Noah nor I can answer: did we help her or make everything worse?
Marcus drops down next to me, his shoulder bumping mine. He's been my best friend since fifth grade, back when neither of us knew what varsity football was.
We've been through everything together. If anyone can read me, it's Marcus.
"So," he says, taking a drink, "you gonna tell me what's going on, or are you gonna keep playing like you forgot how to catch?"
I force a smile, reaching for the charm that usually gets me out of these conversations. "Just an off day, man. Everyone has them. I'll be fine by Friday's game."
Marcus turns to look at me fully, and there's something knowing in his expression. "Nah, don't do that. Don't give me the Evan Mercer performance. I've known you since fifth grade, remember? I know when you're performing and when you're not. What's wrong?"
The directness catches me off guard. I could keep deflecting, but Marcus isn't everyone else, and I'm tired of carrying this alone.
"I messed up with a girl," I admit, staring at my cleats.
"Okay," Marcus says slowly, waiting for more.
"And I can't really explain how because the whole situation is—" I stop, trying to find words. "It's complicated. We were trying to help her with something, and instead we made her hate us."
"We?" Marcus picks up on the plural.
"Noah and me," I clarify. "We both—" I break off, frustrated. "She thinks we want something from her. That what we did was manipulative instead of helpful. And now she won't talk to either of us."
Marcus is quiet for a moment. Then he says something I don't expect. "Whatever you did, own it. Don't hide behind that smile." He gestures at my face, at the expression I've perfected over years. "That's your problem, man. You charm your way through everything. But some things you can't charm your way out of. Sometimes you just have to be real, even if it's ugly."
The words hit hard. I've been doing exactly that, haven't I? Trying to smooth everything over with the right words and gestures, when maybe Lena needs just honesty. Raw, uncomfortable honesty.
"Thanks," I say, and I mean it. Marcus hits my shoulder, a friendly punch.
"You know how to get a girl," he says with a wink. "I shouldn't be the one telling you what to do. You're the one who dated half the cheer squad sophomore year."
"This is different," I say, and saying it out loud makes it real. "I really like her, Marcus. Like, actually like her. Not just interested or attracted, but—" I struggle for words. "She's smart and brave and doesn't take anyone's crap, and she looked at me like I actually mattered, not just like I was some guy on the football team. And now she thinks I want something from her. That my feelings aren't genuine."
Marcus goes quiet, his expression thoughtful. He's always been good at thinking through problems from angles I don't see.
After a long moment, he leans in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. The words he murmurs in my ear are so simple, so obvious, that I can't believe I didn't think of them myself.
My eyes bulge wide, and I turn to look at him. "That's—that's actually perfect. Marcus, you're a genius."
"I know," he says, grinning. "Now get out of here before Coach makes us run suicides."
I don't need to be told twice.
I grab my bag and sprint toward the parking lot, Coach's voice calling after me. But I don't stop.
For the first time since Lena walked out of that hotel room, I have a plan. Something that might show her I'm serious, that this isn't about what I want from her but what I want for her.