Page 115 of End Game

She has her minions, but I don’t know that Johanna actually has any real friends. She never seems particularly happy when she’s with the girls from the team, and I’ve never seen her with anyone outside of the athletic department.

Maybe that’s because I mainly see her after their team loses a game or when Diana is getting more attention than her in the dining hall. She doesn’t seem to have a good relationship with her defensive core, which is a failing as a captain. I don’t know that she cares. She’s never particularly opened up to me before—and why should she? As she said, we’re not friends. We’re hardly even acquaintances.

“Now’s your chance.” Johanna nods at the door.

Diana is with another woman, the two of them laughing at some joke only they are privy to. She’s made a friend! I’m glad she’s making friends. She needs them.

Every fiber of my being aches to call out to her, to beckon her over. Something pins me to my seat. I watch from a distance as she and the woman stand in the line five people deep before they’re able to order, and then they wait at the end of the coffee bar for their drinks. When they receive their to-go cups, Diana doctors her drink with a splash of milk and some sugar. As she stirs, she looks up.

And then our eyes meet.

And then her face falls.

And then before I even know what’s happened, I feel dread start to settle in my veins.

“Go get ‘er, big guy,” Johanna says, taking a nonchalant sip of her coffee.

My palms start to sweat. My stomach lurches. I should—I should go talk to her. Before she gets the wrong idea. Before she gets upset. Before she…

I rub my hands on my jeans. I can do this. It’s Diana. She’s my best friend. Of course she isn’t going to jump to conclusions and assume the worst.

Who am I kidding? Diana always assumes the worst. She is the queen of jumping to conclusions.

She says something to the woman beside her, who looks over in our direction. Her dark eyes narrow, and she replies, not looking pleased.

I’m not all that pleased myself, now that I think about it.

Whatever the woman says, Diana lifts her chin and throws her shoulders back, a telltale sign that she’s pretending to be confident when instead she wants to run away. I hate that I made her feel that way. She weaves her way through the tables, making her way over to us.

“Hey, B,” Diana says, her voice uneven. “Johanna.”

“Hey, Dee.” I take in her comfy outfit, leggings and a Newton soccer sweatshirt. “You look great.”

She rolls her eyes. “We had a study group.”

“And then hit up the bookstore?” I nod to the bag in her hand from the book shop a few doors down. The flimsy paper bag looks like it’s about to explode.

Diana shuffles her feet. “Yeah, maybe.”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Johanna announces loudly. She scrapes back her chair and walks away without a backward glance. I track her through the small coffee shop as she settles in a far corner with her coffee and her phone.

“So. You and Johanna,” Diana says neutrally, following my line of sight.

“We’re just having coffee.”

“Yeah. Because the last time you two had coffee—”

“That was then. This is now.”

Before it was a date. Now it’s… I don’t know what it is. But it’s certainly not a date. We’re both well aware of that. I wouldn’t be asking her about another woman if this was a date. I wouldn’t be leading her on if this was a date.

It’s not a date.

Not when the only person I want to go on a date with is standing right in front of me, looking like her world doesn’t make sense anymore.

“You said you don’t have feelings for her,” Diana says, almost accusing me of lying.

I push back my chair and stand. “I don’t.”