This is it. Our last chance to final. My heart slams against my rib cage, and I can hardly draw a breath. I grab my mom’s hand, this time not letting go.
“And finally, the first-place winners of the ACME Student Design Competition, from right here at Waverly…” I’m on the edge of my seat now, squeezing my mom’s hand so tight it’s a wonder she doesn’t cry out. “Team Spark!”
I clasp my hands over my mouth, but it does little to contain my celebratory scream.
We did it! We actually won!
There’s a thunderous round of applause complete with whooping and cheering, but I can’t focus on any of it. I’m on sensory overload. Or celebratory overload. Or maybe I’m in complete shock. Enzo and I exchange a quick embrace before I turn to my mom and Becca, who lean in and hug me at the same time, shouting their congratulations over the noise of the crowd. My mom’s crying and Enzo’s tugging at my hand and it’s all happening so fast.
I suck in a breath to center myself, square my shoulders, and follow Enzo to the stage on shaky legs, emotions running high. We climb the steps on the left side of the stage and—thankfully—I manage not to face-plant. It’s so bright on the stage I have to squint to see. We shake hands with the judges, and my eyes finally begin to adjust as we pose for pictures.
The photographer snaps pictures from several different angles, but at least he doesn’t have to tell us to smile. I’m grinning like a fool. So is Enzo. Doesn’t matter. We’ve earned the right, busting our butts day in and day out to build the fastest robot in the competition. Of course, we probably wouldn’t be standing here without the meddling of a certain cocky QB. His driving tips were invaluable, if not infuriating. My chest squeezes at the thought of Austin and my smile falters, but I force it back into place.
I will not let my broken heart dampen this moment.
The emcee congratulates us once again, and another round of applause breaks out in the audience. It’s loud and raucous and wholly inappropriate. I squint, focusing on the back corner of the auditorium.
“Holy shit,” Enzo says, nudging me with his elbow. “Is that the football team?”
Holy shit. It is the football team. They’ve taken over the last couple of rows, loud and proud in their Waverly jerseys. And they have signs. The homemade kind. With glitter.
It’s an amazing show of support from our teammates. Actually, no, it’s sweet as hell. And I know without a doubt this is Austin’s handiwork. Is he here? Now? I try to locate him in the crowd, but it’s hard to see their faces from this distance, so I scan the signs, my chest warming as I read the sappy messages. My heart skips a beat when I spot one that says: Kennedy Carter: #93 on the field, #1 in my <3!
He came, and he brought the whole damn team. My throat begins to close up, and tears build at the corners of my eyes. Austin lifts the sign over his head, reminding me of that old movie where the guy rocks a boom box to try and woo the girl he loves. But unlike the guy in the movie, he’s not down and out. He wears a brilliant smile. Which I guess makes sense since he refused to acknowledge the fact that I broke up with him.
Cocky bastard.
I laugh in spite of myself, a spark igniting low in my belly.
He came. For me.
Despite everything. Despite the fact that I broke up with him. Despite the fact that I called him a coward when it was my own fear talking. It’s impossible to focus on the closing ceremonies, so I don’t bother to try. I keep my eyes locked on Austin. I can feel his beautiful blue eyes boring into me, so I’m not surprised in the least when he stands for the remainder of ceremony, declaration held stubbornly over his head.
When the emcee finally wraps up, I’m down the steps like a shot, fighting through the sea of bodies to get to the back of the auditorium. Because Austin’s right about one thing. We have unfinished business.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Austin
The sea of people exiting the auditorium makes it damn near impossible to get to the stage. Which is ridiculous. At six-four, I should be able to shoulder my way right on through, but fighting against the tide of bodies is no easy feat. Especially with the giant poster board I’m toting. The thing’s massive, but no way was I leaving it behind. It’s part of my grand gesture.
I’m halfway to the stage when I spot her.
Kennedy.
She floats toward me, caught up in the mass exodus, determination burning in her eyes. She’s beautiful and fierce and she’s meeting me halfway. That has to be a good sign, right?
My heart beats double time as the distance between us closes. This is right. I can feel it in my gut.
We meet midway up the aisle and there are so many things I want to say to her, but I’m not sure where to start. I’ve given hundreds of speeches—to the team, in class, at fundraisers—but it’s hardly the same as pouring my heart out. Fact is, I suck balls when it comes to expressing my emotions. Probably should’ve practiced at home, but it’s too late for that now.
“Kennedy.”
“Nice sign. Love the glitter.” She gives me a tentative smile, but her arms are crossed over her chest. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out her guard’s up. Doesn’t matter. She’s here. I can work with it.
“Thanks. I made it myself.”
“I can tell.” Her lips begin to quiver and she presses them flat like it’d be the worst thing in the world to share a laugh right now.
I hate this distance between us. I sit the sign on an empty
