𝔟𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔩𝔲𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 ; 𝔢. 𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔬𝔫

⁰²

warning; sexual content and drinking present.

In some diabolical way, I hated Jason Carver.

It wasn't the natural hatred one had for the jockey, arrogant King of Hawkins High. It wasn't because he milked everyone with a heartbeat. It wasn't because the only words occupying his vocabulary were vulgar things towards women, oh, and the word 'freak' was a favorite of his.

Although those are contributing factors, the one attribute that gets under my skin the greatest is his fetid ability to lie.

He proved that at our pep rally earlier today, when he gave the entire gymnasium a whole spiel about how the team's motives to win should be all the deceased folks in the town. Oh, and then proceeded to meander on about his love for Chrissy, after he had just called the entire Tiger Cheer Squad 'pretty.'

So there's the gist of him. And frankly, I'm far from appalled that he's now cursing out the referees for a foul he made.

While eavesdropping on Jason's whole tirade towards the ref, I attempt to sustain the fabricated smile that is truly going to put my cheeks into cardiac arrest.

I help our basemen hoist Chrissy up into an extension, as she lugs her leg into an arabesque, flashing the spectators cluttering the bleachers a winning smile. The basemen launch her into a basket toss, their arms extending to catch her dainty figure. I catch her by the armpits, something she'd asked me to do to feel merely more appeased — since the basemen can be... questionable.

I would kill to be a flyer. The flyers are inevitably the cheerleaders the spectators focus on. Duh. They're being catapulted into the air, who wouldn't be intrigued by them?

I'm stuck as a back spot. No, I'm not bickering. I can see why coach appointed me as a back spot. I wouldn't consider myself 'tall' but I am undoubtedly the tallest on the squad. And although I'm the captain, it's difficult to earn thunder when I'm constantly scintillating from the back.

Anyways, the game goes astonishingly smooth. We're down to twenty seconds on the clock, the guests one grueling point ahead of us. The squad and I will possibly suffer from vocal nodules if we perform even one more chant, so at this point, our poms ebbing and flowing will have to suffice for the team's motivation.

With ten seconds on the clock, the score 69 to 68, Jason breaches for the winning shot. He dribbles through the barricades of crimson uniforms, his short figure, upholstered by muscles, weaving between the angry opposers.

Chrissy's ovation towards him consists of raspy, yet docile chimes of her sweet voice, lots of hopping and twittering of her poms, and worrisome eyes.

But her intrepid attempt to motivate him plummets towards the rim, barreling backwards into... oh my God.

Lucas Sinclair's hands.

Regarded as Mike's best friend, and on the basketball team, I showed a moderate favoritism towards him. Despite the fact he's been benched pretty much the entire season, I'm completely rooting for him to redeem himself.

And sure enough, he does. With a second to spare, he heaves the ball straight through the hoop, sending the crowd, team, and Cheer Squad into jubilation.

I gasp, glancing to Chrissy with a stunned expression on my face. She reciprocates, and we both join the throng now flocking Lucas, who is perched on Andy and Jason's shoulders, basking in this newfound limelight.

He casts me a fleeting look, and I muster just enough time to fist bump him, grinning. "Not bad at all, Sinclair." I endorse, earning a swift smile from him.