Page 15 of #Awestruck

“Bailey?” my coach said, and I realized she’d called my name more than once.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to sit out the next quarter?”

Part of me was tempted to accept. To take the easy out, to turn my back on him and ignore him completely.

But now I had something to prove. That he wouldn’t unsettle me, and that I was a good player. Better than good. Senior year of college, my team had gone to the NCAA championship game and placed second.

I wanted to show him I didn’t suck.

Despite all current evidence to the contrary.

“Put me in. Let’s win this,” I told the coach. She nodded, and we all piled our hands into the middle of a circle and yelled, “Storm!” before heading back onto the court.

For the next half hour, I pretended Evan Dawson didn’t exist. Since I’d spent the last ten years doing just that, I had plenty of experience.

That score went back and forth; sometimes we were in the lead, sometimes the Pioneers were. It was the closest game I’d played in a very long time.

We were down by two points, and the audience had started to count down the time with the clock. Eliza passed me the ball, and I went up to shoot, but one of the Pioneers immediately fouled me. The shot still made it, and the points were counted.

The ref told me what I already knew—that I’d get one free throw. I glanced up at the clock. Two seconds left in the game.

If I missed, we’d go into overtime. It would delay the inevitable confrontation with Evan Dawson I was about to have.

If I made the shot, we’d win.

And I did so enjoy winning.

Everybody moved into position while I stood at the free throw line. The ref bounce-passed me the ball, and I lined up my shoulders and feet. I bounced the ball a few times, clearing my head until the only thing I could hear was the sound of my own breathing.

I squatted down slightly, lifted back up, and released the ball ...

Nothing but net.

My teammates ran to hug me, jumping up and down as the audience cheered for our victory.

I couldn’t help myself. I looked for Evan. Had he been impressed? He was on his feet, clapping and grinning. He even did that guy whistle thing with his fingers.

“Way to go, Ashton!” His voice rang out clear and strong, above all the other happy commotion. He waved, and I quickly averted my gaze.

I stayed in the center of the crowd as my teammates were congratulated by friends and family. Evan remained in the bleachers, as if he was waiting for me to come to him.

When the crowd shifted over to our bench, I grabbed my jacket and my duffel bag, hoping to sneak out quietly. I glanced up and saw that Evan had started walking toward me. Crap.

“Hey, Ashton, you coming out with us to celebrate?” Verity asked me. “We’re thinking karaoke.” It was what we usually did after winning a game—the single ladies would head out together and do something fun.

“I can’t tonight. I have to deal with ...” My voice trailed off as I pointed at Evan.

“Evan Dawson is here for you? Lucky girl. Tell me all about it at our next practice,” she responded, waggling her eyebrows at me as she walked away.

Lucky? Not so much.

Annoyed and feeling a bit stabby? More on target.

Even if he did look sort of yummy in his dark jacket, a slate-gray T-shirt, and his blue jeans.

“Great game! Really intense. You played so well. And I usually hate women’s basketball,” he said when he reached me.

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