The Sanctuary

The halftime buzzer was still ringing in Wyatt’s ears, a shrill, mechanical shriek that sounded like failure.

Wyatt "The Rifle" Reeves, the golden boy of Crestview High, slammed the door of the equipment shed behind him and collapsed onto a pile of tackling dummies. The room was small, suffocating, and smelled intensely of stale rubber, floor wax, and teenage sweat. It was the only place on campus where the lights weren't blinding.

He ripped his helmet off, throwing it into the corner. It clattered against a rack of shoulder pads.

Then, he started to shake.

It wasn't the adrenaline of the game. It was the panic. It started in his chest, a cold iron band tightening around his lungs, making every breath a shallow, gasping struggle. He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in his gloved hands. He was crying. The invincible quarterback, the kid with the Division I offers and the car dealership billboards, was sobbing in the dark because he had thrown one interception.

Just one. But to his father, to the coach, to the town, it was the end of the world.

*Get it together, Reeves. Get up. You have to go back out there.*

The door creaked open.

Wyatt froze. He tried to wipe his face, tried to put the mask of "The Rifle" back on, but his hands were shaking too hard.

A giant, furry orange head poked through the doorway.

It was the Crestview Cougar. The mascot.

The Cougar stepped inside, closing the door against the roar of the marching band outside. Then, with a sigh that seemed to deflate the entire suit, the mascot reached up and twisted the head off.

Underneath was a girl. Her hair was matted with sweat, sticking to her forehead in messy bangs. She had sharp eyes, a cynical mouth, and looked utterly exhausted.

Penny Lane. Wyatt knew her name only because they had sat in the same homeroom for three years. She sat in the back. He sat in the front. They had never spoken.

Penny tucked the mascot head under her arm like a football. She looked at Wyatt—huddled on the floor, red-faced, tears tracking through the eye black on his cheeks.

Wyatt braced himself. He waited for the laugh. He waited for the phone to come out, for the picture that would ruin his life by morning.

Penny didn't reach for a phone. She walked over to a stack of yoga mats, sat down, and reached into the pocket of her fur suit.

She pulled out a warm, slightly squashed juice box.

"Berry punch," she said, tossing it to him. "It’s lukewarm, but the sugar helps with the shakes."

Wyatt stared at the juice box in his lap. "You're not going to take a picture?"

"Please," Penny scoffed. She leaned back, resting her head against a medicine ball. "If people knew I was back here talking to the Golden God, I'd have to actually interact with the student body. I prefer being invisible. It’s the only perk of this sweaty rug I’m wearing."

Wyatt let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. He poked the straw into the box. "I threw a pick."

"I saw," Penny said. "It was ugly. But the receiver ran the wrong route. Not your fault."

Wyatt looked at her, stunned. "You know football?"

"I stand on the sidelines for three hours every Friday jumping up and down," she said dryly. "You pick things up. Besides, everyone else is watching the ball. I watch the players. You looked like you were about to vomit since the coin toss."

"I hate it," Wyatt whispered. The confession hit the dusty air before he could stop it. "I hate the pressure. I feel like... like I'm playing a character in a movie I didn't write."

Penny looked at him. Really looked at him. Her gaze wasn't worshipful like the cheerleaders, and it wasn't critical like his father’s. It was just observant.

"We're both wearing masks, Wyatt," she said softly. She tapped the giant foam head in her lap. "Mine is just easier to take off."

For the first time all night, the iron band around Wyatt’s chest loosened. He took a sip of the warm juice.

"I'm Wyatt," he said, offering a hand that wasn't trembling anymore.

"I know," Penny smiled. It was a crooked, real smile. "I'm Penny. Nice to finally meet the guy under the helmet."

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