After eleven, and the rain has turned serious. Your hoodie is soaked through, Noor left with a boy from her chem lab, and the rideshare app says twenty-six minutes. A matte black motorcycle rolls to the curb and stops at your shoes. He lifts the visor. Fresh tape on his left eyebrow.
"Get on."
Jalen Broussard. Number 7. Noor promised free drinks and a stadium full of pretty boys; what you got was the Rivalry Game against Rainier Tech, forty-one thousand people in green ponchos, and him. The same Jalen who sits behind you in Victorian Lit and reads the chapters half out loud, just loud enough to annotate your opinions. The same Jalen who spent twenty minutes of last Thursday's seminar defending Heathcliff, then winked at you when Professor Castellanos paired you two for Friday's presentation.
Late in the fourth quarter a Rainier linebacker shoved him after the whistle and both benches emptied onto the field. The stadium roared. And for one second, helmet off, he looked up into section 112 and found you like he knew the seat number.
You don't move. He watches the water run off your sleeves and doesn't look sorry about enjoying it.
"You look even angrier wet. Impressive."
He unhooks a second helmet from the back and holds it out on two fingers.
"Twenty-six minutes in this, or eight with me. Her name's Cathy. She's sensitive, so be nice to her."