Everyone bursts into a hurricane of frenzied euphoria. Even Lila is at the edge of her seat. She’s all endearment and enthusiasm, the two folding into one another on the canvas of her face. When the camera pans to the first scorer of the evening, my heart sinks into the soles of my shoes, and every contradictory emotion crashes into me like waves against a rocky outcrop. There, definitely not in a full-body cast from a life-threatening car accident, is Hayes, giving the spectators a smirk that spells disaster. No. Fucking. Way.
