Page 3 of Game On

When Ryan steps up to the line, my teeth clench so hard I hear them squeak against one another. His back muscles flex easily as he jumps, letting the basketball go, until it arcs beautifully in the air and straight into the center of the hoop. Swish.

Of course it was.

“Fuck off,” Lake growls and shoves him out of the way. He runs his hand through his dark hair, slicking it back from his face before receiving a pass from Sloan. He dribbles once, twice, then jumps. When he lets the ball go, I can tell right away it’s not going in. So can he. He shakes his head and moves on with the drill not bothering to see the ball clank against the rim. When he turns, I can see the scowl on his face. It makes me smile. Lake can’t shoot free throws for shit. Never could. If he wasn’t such an asshole, I might try to help him, but let him fucking suffer.

I watch for a little while, my hands itching the entire time. Part of me wonders what their reactions would be if I just walked right out onto the court. It wouldn’t be a question of whether or not they would recognize me, it’s the question of what they’ll do when they recognize me. Their reputation at Rockport followed them to camp, mostly because they acted the same way. They were untouchable. The five of them—Ryan, Sloan, Hayes, Alec, and Lake—ruled camp just like they rule the halls of this school. I’ve seen enough and heard enough to know it’s true. Hell, I’ve sat courtside so many times I know what it must be like for them. Even in this small little world of Rockport High, they’re gods.

They won’t like what I have planned. But that’s tough shit. The thing is, gods need to realize that it isn’t always about them.

I stand and turn, needing to get some food before I miss out entirely on lunch.

“Who’s that?” one of the guys ask.

I almost freeze, but then run ahead. The last thing I want is to get caught ogling the Ballers. I’ll never live it down.

“Maybe it’s Aimee looking for another round,” I hear Sloan joke.

I shake my head as I push the glass doors open. Some shit never ends. They’re still too full of themselves for words.

Not everyone wants to get in their pants.

I swallow as the pinprick of the lie starts to bloom. Honestly, it doesn’t matter if I do—did. As in not currently. It doesn’t matter how hot they are, they’re evil, and that’s a good enough reason not to get involved with them as any.

3

Ican’t say that Broadwell Academy and Rockport High are created equal when it comes to school lunches. I look down at the pizza that just got handed back to me, grease pooling over it, and wince. Maybe I’ll have to bring my lunch. This just isn’t worth it. It looks like food poisoning waiting to happen.

I scan the cafeteria which is in full swing. I can tell right away which one the jock table is with five suspiciously vacant seats. The popular girls’ table is right next to it. The shiny lips and hair glinting off the fluorescent lights gives it away. It’s hard to tell the other tables from one another, so I move through the room slowly, going in the opposite direction of the jock table. “Hey,” a soft voice says. I look up and into the eyes of another girl who looks vaguely familiar. She has curly brown hair. Not the manufactured curls the popular girls seem to do with ease, but naturally curly with a teensy bit of frizz added in. “You’re new, right?” she asks.

I nod.

She pats the table next to an empty spot across from her, and I gladly sit down. There are empty seats around her and then a whole other section of kids on the other side of the table, but it’s obvious they’re not intermingling. “I’m Dawn,” she says.

“Tessa,” I tell her with an awkward wave. When I look across the table to study her more, I notice she has a half-eaten salad in front of her. “Where did you get that?” I ask.

She smirks. “You have to get here early to get one of these.” She checks her watch. “Like within the first five minutes, not halfway through the period.”

My face colors, but she isn’t saying it to be mean. She’s actually laughing a little. “Yeah, I got caught up.”

“First day cafeteria jitters? They’re the freaking worst.” She looks around. “The way I see it. I chose perfectly. I’m far enough away from the cool kids’ table that I don’t have to worry, but I also have a direct line of sight in case drama goes down.” She lowers her voice and nods toward the opposite end of her table. “Plus, those guys down there aren’t all that talkative, so win-win.”

“You’re new too?”

“Started the beginning of this year. My dad wanted to get us out of the city.”

I look around the cafeteria, taking in her assumptions about her choice of table. “Looks like you’ve got everything situated.” When I turn back around, I recognize the math assignment I got earlier that day half-completed in front of her.

She shrugs. “I figure the less homework I have to take home, the better. I don’t mind eating in peace.” Her face freezes for a second. “Not that you can’t sit here tomorrow. You know, if we get along. I’m just saying I don’t mind not having anyone to talk to.”

I shake her cover-up off. The pizza still looks so unappetizing, but my stomach growling tells me I need to at least try it. I pick it up to let the grease run off, and then take a bite of the tip. Surprisingly, it’s not half bad. It’s not the kind I’m used to, but it’s not terrible.

Dawn stares at me as I scarf it down. Her eyes go wide when I lick my fingers. “Okay, what’s your deal?” She glances at the cut of my shirt and then the part of my arms that are showing. “You look like you don’t eat at all, but you just housed that like nothing.”

I laugh, her words catching me off guard. Wiping my face with a napkin, I hold up a finger. When I finish chewing, I tell her. “Looks are deceiving. I actually eat a ton. Not pizza usually though.” I grimace down at the remaining slice of pizza on the plate. My mind is telling me not to eat the grease-infested slice, but it was actually good.

She looks me over. “Where do you put it?”

“I work out,” I tell her. It isn’t until after I see the surprise on her face that I feel like I should clarify. “I’m an athlete,” I tell her. “If I don’t eat, I can’t fuel my workouts. I…” I trail off after her eyes glaze over. I’m used to this kind of talk in my house, but I know I’m an exception, not the rule. Workouts, drills, exercise, food logs. Those are all part of the game plan at Casa Dale. “Never mind,” I finish, waving off whatever I was going to say. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll probably bring my lunch tomorrow.”

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