How To Hate Your Best Friend

thirteen

"Ay lemme get a hit!"

A few seconds passed by when suddenly smoke fogged the chilly night surrounding the area. The smell of fried food and a light trail of blueberry-scented nicotine drafted through the air as the marching band's rendition of Seven Nation Army rang loudly through the Melbourne High football stadium.

Banners flew high and the cheerleaders chanted and kicked even higher as the lacrosse team ripped through the banners.

The crowd went wild, and of course, seated in the front row, I searched for 17.

I was in the dreaded student section and I was only at the game in the first place because I was here for one player and one player only: Colton.

Our school was so obnoxiously school spirited that it even had a semi-famous student section account where they made fun of any and all school rivals. How mature. But if you were looking for school spirit-- Melbourne was the place to be.

I could already tell just by the Victoria Secret Bombshell perfume that I was standing behind the one and only Brooke Mckailey. In my peripheral, I noted that she, Hana, and some other girls had those white and blue dots painted around their eyes and some frat-ish guys were shirtless with letters spelling MELBOURNE written on them.

I couldn't help but observe Brooke. I wanted to know what page we were on.

She was wearing Lululemon leggings, a hoodie, and a loose jersey that belonged to Colton. She also had the number 17 painted on her cheek, and I wanted to slap it off.

Colton was number 17.

But I couldn't lie; she looked gorgeous. Even when she was barely trying, she still seemed to out-do every single person around her. Again, I didn't know if it was her Sarah-Cameron-esque aura, or just the plain fact that she could balance being an overachiever while still being friendly.

But either way, she was beautiful. No one could lie about that.

Suddenly, she turned around, and when I met her chestnut eyes, I froze.

Despite Brooke being in my museum group, things were just weird now. And to be quite honest-- it was all my fault. I never should've opened that closet door. I never should have posted that post (which she had probably seen by now). And I never should have fallen in love with her boyfriend.

She crossed her arms nervously, as if shielding herself from me, then looked away. As if sparing me. Sympathizing.

It was patronizing, and slightly embarrassing.

I kinda wished I could travel back to 9th grade, where she never even had a clue I existed. But no. She knew me. And she knew how I felt about Colton.

Seeing Brooke Mckailey, the perfect it-girl, vulnerable and down on her knees for Colton was something that if got out would be a terrible scar to her doll-like reputation.

And even though literally no one would ever be embarrassed to be with Colton, Brooke had been single (and rumored practiced abstinence) since forever. No one had the power to touch her except-- noting recent events-- Colton.

"Which number is he again?" Hana asked Brooke giddly.

17. Colton was 17.

"Number 28," Brooke sighed. I glanced back at her and saw her bite her lip, panicked. Wait what?

"Jesus fucking Christ is that him?" Hana pointed.

I know I shouldn't have been eavesdropping, but I searched the field for this mysterious '28' anyway. The only person with the number 28 I could see on the field was...from the rival team?