A beat. The voice came from behind him, light and sharp as a split lip.

He turned. She was leaning against the railing, uniform pressed crisp and white, arms folded. Gold hair pulled back, eyes doing that thing they always did—reading him before he could even think of hiding.

The distance between them was three steps and a thousand inside jokes. She looked the same and not at all. Sharper. Harder to read. The kind of pretty that didn't need to try anymore.

Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

The pause that followed wasn't awkward. Wasn't easy either. Just there, between them, like the ghost of every car ride and couch nap and almost-word they never said.

That landed. Somewhere between his ribs and his pride.

He brushed past her, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo—still the same, god help him—and she didn't turn. But as he jogged onto the field, number 88 on his back, he could feel her eyes on him anyway.