Two of his teammates stepped into my path, their hands raised, gentle but firm.
“Ma’am, please.”
“Get out of my way.”
“He told us to watch for you,” the taller one said quickly. “Just wait. Please. Trust him for one minute.”
“Trust him? To do what? Break my daughter’s heart? Turn her into a joke in front of everyone?”
He looked me in the eye. “Please. Wait.”
Then he pushed the flash drive into the laptop.
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I thought of Rosie at the kitchen table three weeks ago, with the invitation in her hand.
“Steven’s always been nice in the hallway, Mom,” she’d said. “He told Madison to leave me alone once, in ninth grade.”
I had heard “nice boy” and translated it into something else.
The music cut. The gym fell into that strange, breathing silence only crowded rooms can make. Steven tapped the microphone once.
