I Dare You To Love Me Back

Chapter Eight

I wasn't proud of myself. Misleading Izzy, letting her believe that Megan and I were involved, gnawed at me with a relentless ache, leaving an emptiness in my chest. I knew it was wrong, every bit of it, and as I sat in the crowded gym, the weight of my mistake bore down on me like a tidal wave. I needed to fix this, but I wasn't sure how. Out of desperation, I had dragged Leah along with me to the game, hoping her bubbly presence would distract me from the knot of guilt twisting inside.

The gym was alive with energy—students buzzed with excitement, the anticipation almost tangible in the air as the team prepared to take the court. Leah was beside me, her excitement palpable as she devoured nachos drenched in cheese. The melted cheese dripped down her fingers, but she didn't seem to notice or care.

"Want some?" she asked through a mouthful of food, offering the soggy paper tray toward me.

"I'll pass. Too nervous," I muttered, my eyes glued to the court, doing my best to ignore the dread churning in my stomach.

Leah gave me a curious glance, one brow arched at my obvious tension. "Em, relax. Izzy's gonna kill it tonight. She always does, you know that."

I forced a smile that felt as brittle as glass. "I'm here to cheer for Megan," I corrected, my voice unnaturally light. Even to my own ears, the lie was weak, almost pathetic.

Leah smirked knowingly, unimpressed by my weak attempt to sound casual. "Oh, right. Megan." Her tone was dripping with sarcasm as she gestured theatrically to the poster we had made earlier that day—our supposed tribute to Megan. "How could I forget the masterpiece?"

Feigning offense, I shot back, "I'm not appreciating your tone right now, Leah."

"Shh, it's starting," she whispered, her focus snapping to the court.

I chuckled despite myself. "You know this isn't the theater, right?"

Leah flashed me a sheepish grin. "How would I know? This is literally my first time watching any kind of sports—on TV or live," she admitted, and I couldn't help but smile at her honesty.

The game began with a roar from the crowd. Leah and I raised our poster, a bold and colorful image of Megan in action, her jersey number 7 emblazoned proudly across it. The team charged onto the court, and there was Izzy, leading the way with her usual cool confidence. My heart skipped a beat as our eyes met for the briefest moment, a flicker of recognition passing between us. But then, I saw something else, something darker that made my chest tighten.

She quickly looked away, her expression hardening as she refocused on the game. But that fleeting moment told me all I needed to know—I had hurt her, deeply.

I did my best to stick to the plan, cheering for Megan with forced enthusiasm. Megan, ever the show-off, responded with a flirtatious wink and a blown kiss. I tried to smile back, but it felt hollow, almost foreign. The truth was, Megan's theatrics were the furthest thing from my mind. My attention kept drifting back to Izzy, watching for any sign that she was okay.

But she wasn't okay. Not even close.

Izzy started strong, as she always did, but something was off. The sharp precision that normally defined her game was absent. Her usual fluidity was missing, her movements hesitant, as though she was second-guessing herself. She missed her first shot. Then another. By the third miss, my heart dropped.

The crowd was too absorbed in the excitement of the game to notice the subtle changes, but I saw it all—the tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her jaw, the frustration building behind her eyes. She fumbled the ball, a rare and uncharacteristic mistake. The crowd collectively gasped, but Izzy didn't seem to hear them. She was somewhere else, battling demons that had nothing to do with basketball.