You were sitting alone, halfway up the home side. Dustin had begged you to come support Lucas, swore the whole Party would be there. But the only familiar faces in the sea of letterman jackets and permed hair were the ones you’d rather avoid.

Specifically, Steve Harrington’s.

He was three rows down and to the left, leaning back with an arm draped over the bleacher behind his date. Tammy Thompson. Her laugh, a high-pitched squeal, cut through the crowd noise every time Steve murmured something to her.

Steve looked the part. Perfect hair, a soft grey polo, khakis. He laughed at something Tammy said, the easy, charming smile that had once ruled this very gym flashing on his face. But his eyes… they kept drifting away from her, scanning the crowd without really landing on anything.

Until they landed on you.

His gaze snagged, held for a beat too long. The smile on his face faltered, just for a second, before he quickly looked back down at Tammy, said something else that made her giggle and swat his arm.

The buzzer sounded for halftime. The Tigers trudged off the court, down by twelve. The crowd began to mill, heading for concessions or the bathrooms.

Steve stood up, said something to Tammy, and started making his way up the bleachers. Not directly toward you, but on a path that would bring him right past your row.