Chapter 19 Three Years Before
3 years before Penny
Twenty minutes later, everyone’s gathered outside, the morning sun already warm on our backs and the lake glinting through the trees. Most of us look like we got dressed straight out of a skate park—baggy tees, athletic shorts, old sneakers that have seen better days. Nate’s shirt is wrinkled, Ryan’s socks don’t match, and Caleb’s wearing sunglasses like this is a beach day instead of… whatever this is supposed to be.
Then Jemma walks out.
And for a second, I swear I forget how to breathe.
Her hair’s up in a ponytail, her black workout set fitting her perfectly, white sneakers catching the light. She’s laughing with Olive about something, tucking a loose strand behind her ear, completely unaware that she just single-handedly reset the axis of my brain.
She catches me staring and grins. “What?” she calls out, teasing, and then—just to kill me—she winks.
Next thing I know, Nate’s elbowing me in the ribs. “Close your mouth, man,” he says, pushing my jaw up with a smirk. “You look like you just saw God.”
I shove him back lightly, but he’s not wrong.
Ryan snorts. “Dude’s gone. Someone write his eulogy.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but I’m smiling like an idiot anyway.
We all shuffle toward the field where the cheer girls are standing in a perfect line, ponytails bouncing, clipboards in hand like this is some sort of military briefing.
“All right, seniors!” the head cheerleader announces, clapping once to get everyone’s attention. “We’ve got a full day of games and challenges planned for you—think Survivor meets gym class. You’ll be split into teams, and yes, there’s a prize for the winners.”
The crowd buzzes, everyone talking at once. Caleb leans in. “Bet it’s just bragging rights.”
“I’d still take those,” Nate says.
Ryan groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “Man, I didn’t sign up to sweat this early.”
I grin. “Didn’t you play basketball once?”
“Yeah,” he says, dead serious. “Keyword: once.”
The whistle cuts through the chaos like a gunshot, and suddenly everyone’s quiet. The cheer captain—tiny but terrifying—steps forward, grinning like she’s about to unleash hell.
“All right, seniors! Here’s how it’s gonna go,” she says, pacing in front of us like a drill sergeant. “We’re picking captains for six teams. There’ll be five challenges—relay, obstacle, scavenger, mystery, and a surprise at the end. You’ll be scored on speed, teamwork, and…” she pauses for dramatic effect, “…style of play.”
The crowd laughs, but I can already feel the competitive energy rising.
“Captains are…” she lists a few names before the last one—“Caleb James.”
Of course. I grin when I see him step up, smug as ever, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt like he just got drafted into the big leagues.
They line the six captains up, and the picking begins.
“Caleb, you’re first,” one of the cheerleaders says, clipboard in hand.
“Logan,” he calls immediately, no hesitation.
I smirk, walking up to him and bumping his fist. “Didn’t know we were playing favorites.”
He grins. “Nah, just picking someone who can actually keep up.”
The picks go around, one by one. Nate and Ryan get scooped up next when it’s Caleb’s turn again, and the three of us regroup beside him, pretending this is a strategy meeting.
When it loops back to him, Jemma’s still standing in the middle of the field, ponytail catching sunlight. Caleb doesn’t even need to look at me before he yells, “Jemma!”
She beams, jogging over, her cheeks flushed pink from the sun. “Good pick,” I tell him under my breath.
“Yeah,” he says. “Not just because you’re staring.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but he laughs anyway.
Then Olive gets picked—by one of the other girl captains—before Caleb can say her name, and he sighs, putting his hands on his hips. “Fine. Stacy!”
A blonde girl waves and jogs over, already cracking her knuckles like she means business.
“Margo!” he calls for his last pick—a tall redhead who looks like she could run laps around half the guys here.
And just like that, our team’s complete: me, Caleb, Nate, Ryan, Jemma, Stacy, and Margo.
Caleb takes a step back, looking over his creation with a proud grin. “Perfect. Balanced. Look at this ratio—three girls, four guys. That’s power.”
Ryan snorts. “Power?”
“Yeah,” Caleb says, nodding toward the team of jocks stretching like they’re prepping for the Olympics. “Those dudes? No chance. Half of them can’t even bend enough to tie their shoes. We’ve got speed, agility, and…” he points dramatically at Jemma, “…style points.”
Jemma laughs. “So I’m just here to make us look good?”
“Exactly,” Caleb says, dead serious.
She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. But we’re gonna win.”
Nate claps him on the back. “All right, coach. What’s the strategy?”
Caleb squints, pretending to think. “Rule number one: don’t die.”
“Rule number two,” I add, “if Ryan starts ranting about height again, automatic disqualification.”
Ryan flips me off, but he’s laughing, too.
Around us, the field buzzes with noise—people stretching, teasing, picking team names, and the faint smell of sunscreen and pine mixing in the air. The cheer girls start setting up cones, ropes, and flags across the field like we’re about to enter boot camp.
Jemma steps up beside me, brushing her arm against mine as she ties her ponytail tighter. “Ready, partner?”
I grin at her. “Always.”
We follow the crowd down the narrow dirt trail that leads to the lake, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel and the occasional laugh echoing between the trees. The air smells like pine and sunscreen and that faint metallic tang of lake water in summer. The sky’s clear, the sun already high enough to make everything shimmer — the water, the sand, even the cheap foldout table the cheerleaders have dragged down here for their supplies.
Everyone’s buzzing with energy, forming loose lines that snake down the beach. The girls running this thing look like they were born for it — clipboards in hand, whistles around their necks, perfectly coordinated smiles.
“All right, teams!” one of them shouts, and everyone quiets down, excitement rippling through the air. “You’re getting bandanas to mark your colors — wear them however you want. Headbands, arms, legs, pockets, whatever. Just keep them visible!”
She starts calling out team colors, tossing them one by one from the table.
“Red team!” A group of football guys cheers, waving theirs like flags.
“Blue team!” Some of the theater kids clap half-heartedly, already debating strategy.
“Green team!”
Caleb jogs up and grabs a handful, tossing them back to us with a grin. “Team Green, baby. The color of envy. And victory.”
“More like grass stains,” Nate mutters, tying his around his bicep.
Jemma ties hers in her hair, the green fabric bright against her dark curls.
I loop mine loosely around my wrist, watching as the sunlight catches the edge of her smile. “You know green suits you,” I say before I can stop myself.
She tilts her head, amused. “You flirting, Logan?”
“Depends,” I say, grinning. “Is it working?”
She laughs, soft and easy. “A little.”
Caleb groans dramatically. “Can we not start a rom-com before the first challenge?”
“Too late,” Nate says. “We’re halfway there already.”
Everyone’s talking, teasing, gearing up for whatever chaos is next. The lake laps quietly at the shore, reflecting streaks of green and gold, and the cheer captain blows her whistle again, her voice carrying across the water.
“Teams, line up! First challenge starts in five!”
Caleb claps his hands together. “All right, team green — let’s go show these people what balance looks like.”
I laugh, jogging after them, the bandana fluttering against my wrist. For once, everything feels simple — sun, laughter, friends, and the thrill of something just beginning.