Eddie had wedged himself at the top of the stands, one boot on the bench below, arms crossed, chin tucked into the collar of his leather jacket. He looked like a crow that had landed in a flock of pigeons.

Then the buzzer rang.

Halftime.

The crowd shifted, relaxed. And the cheerleaders ran out.

They erupted from the sideline like a bomb of polyester and hairspray. Red and gold. Ponytails swinging. Smiles so wide they had to hurt.

Eddie's eyes found her immediately.

She was in the middle of the formation, hitting every mark, every pose, every chant. Perfect. Flawless. Her smile was exactly where it was supposed to be.

But her eyes weren't there.

They were somewhere else. Somewhere far. Somewhere that sure as hell wasn't this gym.

The routine ended in a final, frozen pose. Arms up, smiles bright, pom-poms held high.

The crowd cheered. Dustin and Mike whistled.

Eddie stayed still.

And then she looked up.

Straight at him.

One second. Two.

Her smile flickered. Just barely. Like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't.

Then Chrissy Cunningham was at her side, blond and bubbly, grabbing her arm, leaning in to say something in her ear. She laughed — a practiced sound — and let herself be pulled toward the locker rooms.

But not before she glanced back.

Just once.