Chapter 85 Chapter Eighty Five
Lena's POV
I was practically floating as we left the gym, still buzzing with adrenaline and disbelief.
I'd done it. I was actually on the cheerleading team.
But as the reality set in, so did the time.
"Hold that thought—" I grabbed my bag from where I'd dropped it earlier. "I really have to get going now. It's getting late and I have my tutoring clients, so—"
"Stay." Noah caught my wrist gently.
"I can't, I have to—"
"Martin went to visit his best friend Rosie at the hospital this afternoon," Noah said. "He won't be home until late. And Jace has the game. You don't have anywhere you need to be."
"But..."
"Whatever it is can wait one night." Nicole bounced up beside me. "Lena, everyone stays for the games. You literally can't miss it. The whole town's going to be there!"
"I usually don't go to games," I said weakly. "It's just... it's not really my scene."
It was more than that. Games meant crowds. Meant watching Jace in his element, surrounded by people who worshipped him, while I sat alone in the nosebleed seats where nobody could see me. Meant feeling invisible all over again.
Noah rolled his eyes and pulled his jersey over his head in one smooth motion.
Before I could protest, he tugged it over mine.
The fabric was warm from his body heat and smelled like his cologne. It hung loose on me, the hem falling mid-thigh, his number 7 and "DAWSON" written across the back in bold letters.
"No buts," Noah said firmly. "You're coming. You're going to watch your boyfriend play his first game since transferring here."
"Here." Nicole produced a red headband from her bag—Westbrook Tigers colors—and positioned it in my hair. "Perfect. Now you look the part."
Jake pulled out a handful of temporary tattoos from his pocket. "Got these from the spirit committee. Give me your arm."
"You just carry those around?" I asked, but I held out my arm anyway.
"School spirit, Lena. It's important." He carefully applied a snarling tiger to my forearm, then another to my cheek. "There. Now you're properly decked out."
I looked down at myself—Noah's oversized jersey, the headband, the face paint. I looked like I belonged. Like I was part of something.
"Coach Ellis!" Noah's head snapped toward the hallway where Coach's voice was calling. "Dawson! Let's go, you're starting!"
"That's my cue." Noah grinned at me, then leaned in and kissed my forehead. "Watch for number seven. I'll make you proud."
Then he was jogging down the hall, his shoulder pads gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"Come on!" Nicole grabbed one arm, Jake the other, and they practically dragged me toward the field.
We emerged into chaos.
The entire town had turned out. The parking lot was packed, cars spilling onto the grass. Families streamed toward the bleachers carrying blankets and foam fingers. The smell of concession stand food hit me immediately—hot dogs, popcorn, that specific scent of fried everything that meant American high school football.
"First stop, snacks," Jake declared.
We loaded up at the concession stand—corn dogs dripping with mustard, a massive tub of popcorn to share, sodas so large they required two hands to carry. Nicole insisted on nachos too, and somehow I ended up holding cotton candy as well.
By the time we climbed into the bleachers, my arms were full and my heart was racing.
The place was packed.
Every seat was filled—parents with their faces painted, younger siblings running up and down the aisles, clusters of students wearing red and white, the school colors. The band was warming up in the corner, brass instruments gleaming. Cheerleaders were already on the sidelines running through their routines, Allison front and center in a glittering uniform.
I smiled despite myself. After spring break, that would be me down there. Learning the routines, performing in front of crowds.
"After break, you'll be down there with them," Nicole said, echoing my thoughts.
"I can't wait," I admitted.
We found seats in the middle section—not the nosebleeds, but not courtside either. Perfect viewing distance.
Across the field, the opposing team was warming up. The Sharks, dressed in blue and silver, looking like they'd been training since birth.
I took one look at their lineup—massive guys doing drills, muscles bulging, faces set in aggressive scowls—and my stomach dropped.
"Are we sure those are even teenagers?" I asked.
Jake whistled low. "Holy steroids."
"That guy is at least thirty," Nicole pointed at their linebacker. "Look at the size of him. He's got a full beard!"
"Pretty sure that's just genetics," Jake said, but he didn't sound convinced.
The Westbrook Tigers were huddled near their bench, Coach Ellis in the center barking instructions. I could see Jace's helmet—number 12—and there, standing slightly apart from the group, was Noah.
Something was wrong.
The body language was all off. The other players kept shooting looks at Noah—not friendly ones. Arms crossed, shoulders tense, faces hard.
"What's going on there?" Nicole had her phone out, already taking notes. "That doesn't look good."
"Looks like tension in the ranks," Jake muttered. "New guy syndrome, maybe?"
I leaned forward, trying to hear, but we were too far up. All I could see was the obvious divide—the team on one side, Noah on the other, and Jace right in the middle looking like he was about to explode.
Then it happened.
Jace shoved Noah.
Hard enough that Noah stumbled back a step.
The crowd around us gasped.
Noah shoved back, his face twisted in anger.
Suddenly the entire team was yelling, players from both sides getting in each other's faces. I caught glimpses through the chaos—Marcus grabbing Jace's arm, trying to pull him back. Chen stepping between Noah and another player. Coach Ellis blowing his whistle so hard I could hear it from the bleachers.
"SEPARATE! NOW!" Coach's voice boomed across the field.
The team reluctantly broke apart, but the tension was still crackling like a live wire.
On the opposite sideline, the Sharks were watching with obvious interest, some of them smirking.
"Did you see that?" A guy sitting next to us—wearing a press badge that said WESTBROOK GAZETTE—was talking into his phone. "Yeah, huge fight just broke out on the Tigers sideline. New transfer kid and the captain going at it right before the biggest game of the season."
He paused, listening.
"I don't know, man, but if they can't get their heads in the game, we might be looking at the end of Westbrook's championship streak. Internal conflict like this? It's a death sentence. The Sharks are going to eat them alive."
My stomach twisted into knots.
Nicole was typing furiously on her phone. "This is definitely going in my article. 'Divided Team Faces United Front: Will Tigers' Internal Conflict Cost Them the Championship?'" She looked up. "That's good, right?"
"It's terrible," I said. "They're going to kill each other before the game even starts."
Jake shook his head. "Jace isn't stupid enough to throw a game over personal drama. He loves football too much."
"Does he love it more than he hates Noah?" I asked quietly.
Nobody had an answer for that.
Down on the field, Coach Ellis had the team in a tight circle now, clearly giving them a come-to-Jesus talk. I could see his arms gesturing emphatically, his face red even from this distance.
Noah stood with his arms crossed, jaw tight, staring at the ground.
Jace was the opposite—pacing like a caged animal, his helmet in his hands, looking ready to throw it at someone's head.
The ref blew the whistle.
"Teams to the line!"
The crowd roared to life, the band striking up the fight song, cheerleaders launching into their routine.
The Tigers broke their huddle and jogged onto the field.
But they weren't moving like a team. They were moving like eleven separate guys who happened to be wearing the same uniform.
"This is bad," Jake said. "This is really bad."
I crossed my fingers tight enough to hurt, watching Noah take his position.
Please be okay, I thought desperately.
The teams lined up, the crowd held its breath, and the refree raised his hand.
"It's about to go down!"