being in a secret relationship with jackie
it’s late september in wiskayok, and the air is starting to cool, but the bleachers behind the field still burn a little from the sun if you lean back too long. you’re sitting there now knees pulled up, chin resting on them watching jackie lace her cleats like she’s in a nike ad and not a dusty new jersey town with one decent gas station.
she’s got her practice jersey bunched up around her waist and her hair in a high ponytail that you’ve seen her redo at least four times in the past ten minutes. she’s nervous.
“you’re gonna be late,” you murmur, kicking her shin gently.
jackie looks up with a grin like the sun came out just for her.
“you say that like you don’t like watching me get in trouble.”
you roll your eyes, but the truth is, you do. there’s something funny about miss perfect jackie taylor getting chewed out by coach martinez because she spent fifteen minutes behind the bleachers “hanging out” with a girl no one knows she’s dating.
she tugs the tongue of her cleat, then leans over and kisses you quickly so fast you barely feel it, and so soft you feel it everywhere.
but she’s grinning again, her whole face lit up, cheeks pink like she’s still nervous, even after all this time.
“you said no lipstick today.”
“i said no smudgy lipstick,” you tease, “there’s a difference.”
jackie exhales, flops back on the grass beside you.
“this part where i have to go be ‘jackie taylor’ and not just... me. with you.”
her eyes flicker to yours, cautious and soft. “the real part.”
you reach over and gently run your fingers over hers, the way you’ve done a thousand times in the dark during your so-called “sleepovers.” the ones where you watch clueless or scream until your stomach hurts from laughing and then fall asleep wrapped around each other like a couple of dorks who don’t want morning to come.
jackie’s always the big spoon. even when she pretends she doesn’t like cuddling.
(“you move too much,” she said once, halfway through a sleepover. and then held onto you like a damn koala all night.)
“we’ll get out of here someday, jack.”
she looks at you like she wants to believe it. like she almost does.
“you think there’s a place where we can do this without sneaking around behind bleachers and pretending we’re just best friends who are really into sleepovers?”
“i think there’s a place where people won’t care if you kiss me in daylight.”
“...and where your mom doesn’t give me the evil eye every time i show up with a duffel bag.”
jackie groans. “god, she totally thinks we’re hooking up.”
“yeah, but she knows.” jackie hides her face in her hands, then peeks out between her fingers with a half-laugh. “she made me go to confession after your last sleepover. confession, y/n. i told father donnelly that we were practicing lines for romeo and juliet.”
you snort. “which version? the one where juliet takes her top off?”
jackie shoves your shoulder but she’s laughing now, that full-bodied laugh that makes her eyes crinkle and your chest ache a little because you love her.
(not the soft kind of love, either. the kind that punches a hole in your ribs when you realize how deep in you are. the kind that doesn’t go away even when you’re pretending it’s nothing.)
the whistle blows across the field and jackie winces.
“i have to go be the captain now.”
she stands, then pauses and looks down at you, sun behind her like a halo, even though she swears too much and forgets to turn in her english homework half the time.
jackie taylor—homecoming queen, golden girl, certified overachiever.
she steps closer, crouches down, and kisses you again. slower this time. longer. warm and familiar and just a little desperate.
“friday night?” she whispers. “movie night?”
you grin. “if by ‘movie’ you mean thirty minutes of pretending to watch empire records before making out until my mom threatens to come in, then yes. movie night.”
jackie tugs her ponytail tighter, smiles.
she jogs off toward practice, and you stay there for a minute longer, heart still thudding, already counting down the days until you can be alone again.
