You sat alone in the middle section, a concession-stand Coke sweating in your hand. Dustin had begged you to come, swore he’d be here, but his seat remained empty. Probably holed up in Eddie Munson’s trailer with the rest of the Hellfire Club.

Your eyes drifted from the court, scanning the crowd out of habit. They snagged on a familiar head of perfectly coiffed hair near the top of the bleachers.

Steve Harrington. He was leaned back, one arm draped along the bench behind his companion. Tammy Thompson. Her big, bleached-blonde hair was a beacon, her laughter a shrill counterpoint to the roar of the game.

Steve’s profile was relaxed, a slight, practiced smile on his face as he nodded at something Tammy said. He looked the part. King of the Hill, even three years after graduation.

But then his gaze, which had been lazily tracking the game, slid away. It swept over the crowd, a slow, casual scan. It passed over you, paused for a fraction of a second, and then moved on.

A moment later, his head turned back. His eyes found yours again. This time, they held.

The practiced smile faltered, just for a beat. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of recognition. Then Tammy tugged on his sleeve, and he looked away, the easy grin slipping back into place as he leaned down to hear her.