Practice ends earlier than usual—no pads, just walkthroughs. Coach said we earned it after last week’s win. I’m not about to argue. My legs are sore, my brain’s fried, and all I want is a shower and maybe something that doesn’t involve a playbook.

Or, better yet—Hailey.

She texted me during eighth period:

Hailey (2:12):

u coming over? parents out. :)

No need to read between the lines.

By the time I pull into her driveway, the sun’s already dipping low, casting long shadows across the front yard. Her car’s there. No other cars in the drive. Good sign.

I knock once, out of habit, but she’s already opening the door, leaning on the frame like she’s been waiting.

“Hey,” she says, smiling.

“Hey.” I step in and drop my bag by the door. “Quiet house.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, closing the door behind me. “Mom’s at some dinner thing. Dad’s working late.”

“Tragic,” I say, grinning.

She rolls her eyes and pulls me by the shirt into the living room. The TV’s on in the background—some reality show neither of us is watching. We drop onto the couch like it’s muscle memory. Her legs slide over mine. My hand rests on her thigh.

This is familiar. Comfortable. Easy.

We kiss—slow at first, then a little hungrier. Her hands move to my jacket, tugging it off. I let her.

“Missed you today,” she murmurs.

“You saw me at lunch.”

“Not the same.”

I don’t say anything. I just kiss her again, letting everything else fall away—the stress, the schedules, the noise. With Hailey, it’s simple. I know the moves. I know the lines.

And right now, that’s enough.