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Quote by Victoria Zeller

“The thing is: no matter what, at some point, you have to leave the game behind and find out who you really are… No matter what, I just kept coming back to that night in Brockport, to that tackle I made, that one last field goal in the slush. That was the part of the game I wanted to hold in my heart forever.”

Quote by Victoria Zeller

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One of the Boys

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Victoria Zeller

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“Oh, sure,” I joke, my voice trembling only slightly. His face is so close I can smell the shampoo he used this morning. See the fine lashes against his cheek. I’m scared to want him—but I want him anyway. My next words come out breathy and faint. “Damsel in distress activates your hero mode?”The passion in his voice, the breathless force of it, is enough to make me shiver. “You’re not a damsel to me, Bree. You’re a warrior. You’re strong and you’re beautiful and you’re brilliant and brave.” He presses his forehead against mine, his eyes squeezed shut, and takes a slow, ragged breath. “And I’d really like to kiss you.”

“Nick? That you?” Russ. I instinctively freeze, but Nick lifts his head, a frustrated groan rising from his chest.Another voice nearby. “Who’s that—?” Oh God. Evan too. “Whoa!”At some point, we’d rotated so that my back is toward the way we’d come, and Nick is facing Russ and Evan’s disembodied voices. Thank the Lord, too,because I can duck my face into Nick’s shoulder and catch my breath instead of die of mortication in front of frat boy Evan Cooper. Evan crows. “Oh-kayyy, y’all! Sheeit...! Get it!” He’s wheezing with laughter.“Is this a good morning kiss or a good night kiss?” Russ calls, the sound of agrin all over his voice. “Are we coming or going?” “Kinda busy right now, guys.” I can’t help but feel a little thrill at the steel underneath Nick’s hoarse voice.“Oh, we can see that.” Russ laughs at his own joke while Evan says, “Sorry to interrupt, my liege! Please, proceed with thy gentle tonguing!”

“Take a day off from your own self, wander through the corridors of curiosity, and let the unexpected whispers of existence unveil untold chapters within. Take a day off from your own self, rediscover the world around you, and let the symphony of life compose a new melody for your soul. Take a day off from yourself as well, letting the world unfold without your constant scrutiny. Embrace the liberation of anonymity, allowing the universe to surprise and inspire you anew when you return to your own narrative.”

“Artoo, I'm switching back to regular handwriting. Calligraphy is hard, and I didn't bring my good pens. Or I need more practice. Right now you're sitting across from me, probably writing HAGS 30 times in a row. I know a little bit of a lot of languages, but even so, I struggle to put this into words. Okay. I'm just going to do it. First of all, I need you to know I'm not putting this out there with any hope of reciprocation. This is something I have to get off my chest (cliché, sorry) before we go our separate ways (cliché). It's the last day of school, and therefore my last chance. "Crush" is too weak a word to describe how I feel. It doesn't do you justice, but maybe it works for me. I am the one who is crushed. I'm crushed that we have only ever regarded each other as enemies. I'm crushed when the day ends and I haven't said anything to you that isn't coated in five layers of sarcasm. I'm crushed, concluding this year without having known that you like melancholy music or eat cream cheese straight from the tub in the middle of the night or play with your bangs when you're nervous, as though you're worried they look bad. (They never do.) You're ambitious, clever, interesting, and beautiful. I put "beautiful" last because for some reason, I have a feeling you'd roll your eyes if I wrote it first. But you are. You're beautiful and adorable and so fucking charming. And you have this energy that radiates off you, a shimmering optimism I wish I could borrow for myself sometimes. You're looking at me like you can't believe I'm not done yet, so let me wrap this up before I turn it into a five-paragraph essay. But if this were an essay, here's the thesis statement: I'm in love with you, Rowan Roth. Please don't make too much fun of me at graduation? Yours, Neil P. McNair”