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Ridgecrest Academy's quarterback eyes me longingly from the sidelines after I give Brock a good luck kiss before he enters the field for his first play. The kiss itself was chaste. Mediocre at best, and despite the fact that his tongue was begging for entry, it was denied. I'm not sure if Brock just doesn't care that each act of acquiescence is pulled from me like teeth and hair that are firmly rooted to my being, or if he honestly hasn't noticed.

I don't want to kiss.

I don't want to make out.

And I definitely don't want to do either of those things in public.

I know Brock thinks he loves me, but a man like Brock is incapable of loving anything but his own reflection. He's the boy whose been told since he was a young child that the world was his oyster. Everything out there was conquerable. His for the taking. Apparently, in Brock's mind, that includes me. Unfortunately, I've put myself back in this situation and I can't figure out the best way out of it. I'm a stupid, stupid girl.

Now, if you had met Brock's parents, you would be able to clearly identify where the breakdown in his psyche sprouted its first root. It's almost systemic at this point. White Anglo-Saxton Protestant family. Father was a frat president who played football for his college. His old Jersey is framed in the living room. His mother is straight up Stepford and waits on his father hand and foot. When he gets home she has a whiskey poured like it's 1956. He's been told that this is what's important in life. It's what he's entitled to in life. So, this is what he expects his future to bring.

Fuck. That.

I know his father married his high school sweetheart, but that's not going to happen unless Brock finds a new high school sweetheart before the end of the year. I could see the college ball thing happening for him, though. He's been playing since he was old enough to wrap his entitled little sausage fingers around a football-- and it shows. I can't deny that he's incredibly dedicated and talented, but that's not enough to keep my interest. Even before my father died, I was getting past the point of giving a fuck about appearances, it would seem. Breaking up with Brock was the first step to finding myself, I suppose.

The quarterback of the other team has been trying to snipe me from Brock for years. They're our rivals. We're always what stands between one another and the championship. Their quarterback doesn't want me. He just wants to fuck with Brock.

My mind is caught in this neverending loop when Oakley runs past me and onto the field, getting set up in line and waiting for the play to snap. He's a running back, which is a great fit for him. His body is tone, athletic, and lissom. Although, I would have to admit that with his superior strength and speed he would be an amazing defensive player. Hell, he would probably be less of an asshole if he got his rage out on the field sometimes. I watch as his lithe form flies down the field. His run was perfectly graceful, like a motherfuckin gazelle. He catches the ball, evading a tackle easily as he coasts into the endzone to score a touchdown on the first play.

I don't care if the man is my mortal enemy, I go nuts. If anyone were to ask I would swear up and down I was just being a good cheerleader, but watching him dominate on the field like that lit up something in my blood. I find myself licking my lips as I imagine them pressed up against his firm sweat-slicked chest.

Get a grip, Sunday.

Letting my gaze track back downfield, I see Brock who is carefully evaluating the way I'm watching Oakley. His gaze hardens as it ping pongs between the two of us, no doubt trying to gauge what's going on between us. I doubt he would believe me if I were to tell him. I guess if he asked I could say it was nothing, but that's not exactly true, either. I'm just not sure what is.

After the other team goes forth and out, our offense takes the field again. Brock's previously cocky and playful demeanor toward me has shifted to irritated glares and cold stares. Trying to disregard his icy stare, I climb in for a basket toss, but the play kicks off as soon as I'm flung into the air, and before I come back down I can see that Brock has thrown a pass that intentionally places Oakley in position to get nails by a 250-pound linebacker from Ridgecrest. The guy's built like a Mack Truck; so much so that his nickname is Mack.

The moment my girls catch me, I reach out, flinging my wrist in a motion against the linebacker's ankle, causing him to slip and take a small tumble to the ground and allowing Oakley to jump over him, catching the pass and looking like a star fucking athlete in the process before making a thirty-yard carry.

Poe sidles up beside me as we're cheering toward the crowd. "You can't use your powers to cheat at football, Sunday," she admonishes playfully causing me to cough out a laugh while I wave my pom poms in the air.

"For your information, I wasn't cheating. I was saving someone from being roadkill. I was being magnanimous," I say tossing my head to the side nonchalantly. The crowd is still cheering the play when I turn to find Oakley giving me a nod in thanks, causing me to blink. I guess witchcraft isn't so bad when it's used to keep him breathing, yeah?

"Are you sure we should be saving Oakley? I mean, he's the bad guy."

I exhale deeply as we switch out with some other girls, taking Poe with me as we meander toward the water station. "He's trapped by circumstance, same as we are. I'm not saying we're on the same team, but I am saying that I don't want to see him flattened. Yet, anyway. We have a truce, somewhat. I'm hoping that he'll come to understand that I'm not the threat he thinks I am and stop trying to stab me."

Setting her water bottle back down on the sidelines, Poe turns to me again. "You know it could never work between the two of you, right? I mean, neither the witches nor the hunters would ever stand for inter-office dalliances."

I swallow, letting my shoulders slump. "I know that. It's not even like that. I just don't want to have to do something I would regret, even if he did get a little stabby with me. I have full control over myself and the decisions I make. I'm not going to let them make me into the monster they seem to think I am."

Shooting me an understanding glance, Poe reaches around my shoulders, pulling me into a sideways hug. "I won't tell anyone you're not an insufferable bitch, Sunday. I promise, your secret is safe with me."

"Gee, thanks," I laugh out as we return to the line, completing the formation and leading the section before us in a rousing version of the fight song. Before we know it, Halftime rolls around, and with it comes Mrs. Doherty, the principal, and the student body president, Royce Donovan. The squad had planned a routine for halftime, so we were as surprised by their arrival as the rest of the star-struck crowd. Unfortunately, it's nothing new. The school faculty here is shit at keeping anyone up to date on their schedules.

Mrs. Doherty is known school-wide for her colorful skirt suits. Today, it's fluorescent pink because apparently she can't be bothered to break her tradition for a little school spirit despite the fact that I'm expected to let half my ass hang out for the same reason.

"Class, class. We're just here to announce your homecoming court! The votes were tallied early so we thought there was no better time to make the announcement. If your name is called, please come down to the field."

Many schools choose to wait until the dance to make such an announcement, but we do it beforehand-- usually the day before so that the court can complete their royal duties, aka take pictures, look hot, and get fucked up. Yay…

A ton of people campaigned this year, so imagine my surprise when the time to read the Homecoming Queen winner out, and Mrs. Doherty calls the name: "Sunday Hathaway."

I turn to Veronica, who is already standing on the field, having accepted the princess title a moment ago. She's celebrating harder for me than she did for herself. Her eyes are bright and attentive and her cheeks are perked into little blush apples.

"I didn't even campaign," I hiss out to Poe who only offers me a shrug before gently urging me to the middle of the field to stand beside the king, who to the surprise of absolutely no one, is Brock. I guess his family will have yet another high school success to put on the wall.

I stand next to him as they place the sash across my shoulder, finding the eyes of Oakley at the sideline. HIs jaw is tense and firm and the heated glare he levels on Brock sends my mind spinning.

I look between the two boys for a minute when the realization dawns; he's jealous.