Jumping from my seat, I grabbed the microphone. Jack actually looked relieved when I snatched it from Coach’s hands, and Sydney stared up at me, stunned.

“Jack Porter,” I began, then slammed my mouth shut. Christ, what am I thinking? “Jack Porter is far from perfect. I mean, we all know the kid can catch balls, or at least that’s what he told the Northern Weekly.”

The football players in the room had a good laugh, and Jack smiled.

“He’ll tell you his strong arms come from years of hard work and practice. But I think I’ll have to take a little credit if you don’t mind. Jack would never have those bulging forearm muscles if he didn’t scrub vomit out of carpet so well.” Cue another group laugh. “Seriously, you don’t know clean until a toothbrush hits an oriental rug.” Taking a quick glance at Fernando, I added, “Reminds me. Might want to change your toothbrush, Fernando.”

I had the mothers and players rolling by now, but more importantly, one laugh cut through the crowd—Sydney’s. The only laugh that mattered.

“We know Jack is meticulous. I mean, I just sat here watching him rearrange the table centerpiece for fifteen minutes.” I pointed to the hydrangeas on the table, and everyone laughed, but my ears were trained on the only laugh I wanted to hear. And when it came again, I felt alive.

“But Jack’s more than a closet florist. He’s a helluva running back. Swift-footed and spry. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t say it was his family that led to his success.”

Margot straightened in her seat and glanced around the room, expecting a collective thanks.

“Really, isn’t it all our families that brought us to this point? And for Jack Porter, that was his sister, Sydney.”

Sydney’s eyes flashed to mine, and her face grew flush. Margot crossed her arms, digging her nails into her blazer, and leaned back in her chair.

“Sydney, stand up.” I motioned for her to stand, and she went from flush to plum purple. “Come on, let everyone see the pretty Porter.”

Sydney slid out of her seat and stood. A few catcalls shot from the crowd, and I glanced at Chance. Immediately, he started writing names of players who’d get their asses kicked later.

“Jack Porter’s number one fan, people.” An applause erupted from the banquet hall. “Jack Porter is a good kid. He’s a talented athlete and a loyal friend. We all love Porter.” I turned to Sydney, and this time her eyes never faltered from mine. “I know I’m in love with Porter.”

Not laugher, but an awkward silence followed, and Sydney took off running for the door.

Handing the mic to Coach, I ran after her.

Chapter Forty-Five

I was breaking out in hives because this closet was packed with scratchy wool. Flammable wool. Which wasn’t good since my face was a four-alarm fire.

“Sydney?”

Hearing Gray’s voice, I crunched into the tiniest ball possible and hid behind a blue trench. When I ran from that banquet hall, I took my first left into the coat closet, locking the door behind me.

“Sydney, please. You couldn’t run that fast down the hallway. Not in those heels. You’d roll an ankle.”

Damn heels, I thought as I rubbed my sore ankle. I would’ve been long gone if I had on my Converse.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me, so I’ll talk to you. Just stay wherever your little monkey body is hidden. It’ll only take a second.”

A sigh came next, followed by a low kick near the closet door, so I held my breath.

“Sydney, please, I can’t stand that you hate me. If I could take it all back, I would in a heartbeat. I would’ve never messed with you. I would’ve never left my dorm room freshman year. I would’ve loved you two years ago as much as I love you today.”

Lifting the heels of my hands to my eyes, I tried to cool them down, but it was no use. Tears began to fall, sliding down my cheeks, with no end in sight. An audible snort was coming next, so I grabbed a cashmere sweater coat and buried my face into the soft red fabric.

Why is he telling me this?

I’d forever be grateful for what he did for Jack in there. Even I couldn’t have saved that mess. But telling me he loved me in front of a hundred strangers? Didn’t he understand it was hard to be around him? Every word from his mouth was a reminder of what I’d be missing next year when he was gone. I was protecting us both.

“Don’t worry. I plan on staying away from you like you asked.” Gray let out a heavy sigh. “But I won’t stop thinking about you, Sinister. You can hate me, but please stay away from Ni—”

“Gray?” Della’s voice echoed down the hall. “What are you doing out here? Your coach is talking about draft.” A set of heels stopped by the door. “Where’s Sydney?”

“She’s gone,” he answered, his voice weary. “She won’t be back.”

He’d forget about me eventually.

When he was freezing in Pittsburgh. But he’d probably have a blanket of money and a cheerleader to keep him warm at night. And he could draw her naked body with his oil pastels and have five stupid perfect babies with his gorgeous face and her proportionate ears.

I stared down at my mixer, dragging my fingers over the crossfade. I’d just left the studio after getting the shit verbally kicked out of me by Brian.

“What the hell was that?” Brian had screamed. “That was a crap show, Sydney. It would have been more entertaining to get you drunk and put you on the air. At least you’d have something interesting to say. Tuesday better be the best show of your life or you can kiss that internship good-bye.”

I just stood there agreeing with him. Too embarrassed to tell him the truth. There would be no internship, and being a radio personality would just be a college phase. I’d agreed to blackmail Katharine, but Sunday Lane would be forgotten. And in the meantime, she’d be a slave to the Panhellenic.

“Lots of people here,” Nick said, placing a bottle of water next to my mixer. “I think the word’s out about DJ Sinister.” He waited next to the table, and I gave him a half-hearted smile.

“What’s wrong?” Placing a hand on my back, he rubbed gently. “Trouble with Peters?”

I shook my head. “No more Peters.”

“Shit. I’m sorry,” he said, now wearing a grin. “Well, it looks like you need a drink. After your set? An old buddy of mine is having a party.”

“I don’t know, Nick.”

“Just think about it.” He hopped down from the stage. “Time to spin, Sinister.”

The crowd had nearly tripled, and I would’ve thought it was because there was no school Monday, but I genuinely think they were there for me. And like it always did, the energy around me filled my empty insides, and I spun my little heart out. I put all my rage, all my bottled-up emotion, into the set.

After an hour, I took a break and headed toward the bar.

“Shorty!” I heard a husky voice yell through the crowd. “Shorty!”

Flipping around, I slammed into a lean, sweaty chest and looked up at DJ Bently.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said, leading me up to the bar. He rapped his knuckles against the counter, and soon Nick was over. “Two beers.”

“Bently, what are you doing here?” I asked, thinking over my set.

Shit, Sydney, did you mess up and embarrass yourself? God, if I knew he was here, I probably would have played my newest mix. Then I could have asked his opinion, whether the beat was too fast to be laid over a Portishead track or if I should have chosen something slower.

“Here to see you, shorty.” He took a swig of his beer and pointed to a middle-aged man wearing a green sweater and jeans, sitting at the far end of the bar. “That’s Darren Waters.” Bently nodded, and soon Darren was standing next to me. “Darren owns Nirvana. I gave him your mix, and he loved it.”