“Come on,” I say, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the line for tickets.
“Did you see the size of that thing?” she asks, halfway hyperventilating as she fans herself with one hand and clutches my arm with the other like she’s about to faint.
“It’s a cup,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“I heard that,” Duke calls as he saunters past.
“It’s still true,” I holler back.
“Lies,” he yells. “All lies!”
Jolene and I burst into laughter as he disappears through the gate. We get tickets and head inside, our posters under my arm. We stand at the railing in front of the front row, even though some parents give us dirty looks. That’s the thing about Willow Heights parents. They’ll grumble and glare, but they’re too polite to tell us to fuck off.
I don’t anticipate lasting too long, anyway.
A little section of girls stand at the railing in the corner, all of them wearing the black-and-gold jerseys of our team, though they’re in tiny sizes that are tight on them. “Who are they?” Jolene asks, nodding to them. No one is giving them dirty looks.
“Those are the team’s fangirls,” I say. “Also known as the Dolce girls. Supposedly they service the team after the games.”
Jolene sighs like it’s the most romantic thing she’s ever heard. “I want to be a Dolce girl.”
“You and me both,” I mutter, though I’m pretty sure my reasons are different from hers. I want in. If I have to be in their beds to do it, that’s a price I’m willing to pay. But my services don’t extend past Royal to the rest of the team, no matter how much they defend me in the halls from their own teammates or how good Duke smells when I’m almost pressed up against him.
I hand Jolene one of the posters, and I take the other, and we hold them on the outside of the railing. The cheerleaders read them with mixed reactions. Some of them give us dirty looks, but others giggle and elbow each other. Gloria never breaks her stride, to her credit, continuing her chants. She gives her head a little shake when our eyes meet, but for a second, her smile turns genuine before going back to the plastic cheerleader one she pastes on.
They cede the field to the majorettes, and Gloria drops her pompoms and runs by our spot. “You’re crazy,” she calls up to me. “Want me to tell him you’re here?”
“I think he’ll notice,” I call back, flashing a grin at her as she dashes away, her blonde ponytail bouncing.
I feel high and free, like I do when I jump in front of a train. That’s what I’m doing now. Playing chicken.
Except instead of a train, it’s Royal, who might be even more dangerous. Still, it gives me the same rush, the same exhilaration. It’s always worth it—until it isn’t.