You win

Westerman - I dislike you

I've never felt so drained in my entire life. My legs are weak, barely able to keep up with me while I walk over to my football bag, shoving all my gear inside along with the rest of the team. My knees stained with grass, my body bruised from taking some hard hits—noticeably harder than usual ones from Austin Tebow, no surprise being he's a dick.

Coach Truman gives me a nod of approval as he walks by, acknowledging that what I just went through was a bit over the top, even for him. Then again, I did fuck up and get benched for a home game, so I can see why the team would be pissed off. Though I'm not the captain—that title belongs to Demarcus Trent—like hell could I carry the responsibility of the whole team. One of the first conversations I had with Truman was when he commented that I was his first "best player" who wasn't captain in all his years of coaching, not sure how I should take that.

I grab my bag off the grass and head over to the bleachers, where Delezar is leaning over her arms folded against the metal bar, one leg bent and forward in a relaxed position. She sports a tight bodysuit tank, hair falling down her back, and sunglasses loosely fitted on her face.

"Enjoy the show?" I ask, hauling my bag over as she walks closer to me.

"I did," she starts, a warm smile stretching across her lips. "It was refreshing to see you getting hit." Her short-lived smile fades as she walks past me.

I quickly match her pace until we're walking side by side toward the parking lot. "C'mon, your heart didn't break for me at all?" I ask, earning a sideways glare. Her face shifts from mine to some of the players still making their way off the field.

"Surprised you're the only one wearing a shirt," she states.

"Why? You wanna see me shirtless?"

She doesn't respond, but I don't need to see behind her glasses to know her eyes are rolled. We continue the rest of the way in silence, just the sounds of our footsteps and the distant chatter of my teammates filling the air. No surprise, we've barely exchanged words since that night at JAB.

"What do you flip a switch? Does acting like an asshole make you feel like a big man?" She sneers, her face close to mine, so close I can smell her vanilla sent radiating off her. I know I should shut up, back down, and let her have the win.

But I can't. If there's one thing I hate, its losing.

"No, being your only solution does." My voice is barely audible; I'm unsure if I even spoke. But her face tells me I did; her angry expression falls. I anticipate a reaction—cursing me out, slapping me, anything. Instead, she backs down and walks away in silence.

The silence and her lingering anger still present four days later. Still lingering as we stop where the walkway ends and the parking lot begins. She waits impatiently, checking her smart watch, not for a notification but for an excuse not to acknowledge me.

"Del..."

She cuts me off. "Can he see us?" She questions, and I look ahead to see my father talking to coach Truman by his car, eyes lingering over to me and then briefly to Sofia.

"No." I lie.

"Then what?" She pushes her sunglasses up her head, pushing some of her hair back and narrowing her brown eyes, which now look a deep gold as the sun consumes them.

"About the other night-" Before I can finish, she quickly looks over her shoulder and back at me, pushing her sunglasses back down.

"He saw." She walks away, continuing straight. I watch as my father stares at her, then at me. I exhale, then make my way over, watching as they exchange a handshake before Truman heads to the school.