“Maybe trash talk is a turn-on for all basketball players,” I start to think.
Lewis shakes his head. “You basically insulted his dick in public. If that turns him on, then I have one piece of advice, Carrie—run.” His eyes slide across the court. “Fucking psycho!”
It occurs to me that Donovan hasn’t said a word this entire time. I turn back to him. He’s gazing at my feet, deep in thought.Guess he doesn’t give a shit.Why would he, though? Sure, Berenson is the enemy—but ultimately, so what if another guy hits on me? Why would Donovan care? Disappointment swells in my chest.
The coach calls his team over, and the players cluster around him, leaving me alone in my depressing little bubble.
I’m spending way too much time with Donovan Wolinski.
I head to the restroom before play starts up again, and just as I’m sliding into my seat, Berenson winks at me. I roll my eyes hard. I was joking when I said maybe he thinks I’m hot—but the way he’s acting, I can’t help but wonder. If he’s hitting on me to piss off Donovan, it’s not working—the guy’s fully focused on the game—but still, number 34 doesn’t let up. When he nails a three-pointer, he turns and flips me the finger, and I silently pray he breaks a knee.
Some of the crowd are picking up on his obsession with me, glaring at me like I’m a traitor.
“It’s not my fault,” I snap at a student giving me the side-eye.
“Yeah,” Adam growls. “Back off.” He turns to me. “Hang in there, Carrie. We’re nearly done here.”
This is so freaking awkward. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being the center of attention. I wish the ground would just swallow me up, but there’s ten minutes until the end of play. I look down at my bag. If there’s one way to prove how little I give a shit about Berenson, it’s this. I pull on Donovan’s jersey.
With every point Wolinski scores, I leap to my feet and yell at the top of my lungs, clapping so hard my palms start to sting, and when the final buzzer echoes through the room, the Cardinals have won and I feel like I’m about to have a stroke.
Adam tugs on a strand of my hair. “You enjoy yourself?”
“Okay, maybe I did.” I nod. “I’m not sure I’ll be doing it again, though. I think I just gave myself high blood pressure.”
“Don’t worry about Berenson, he knew that you and Don are—”
He clears his throat.
“That we’re what?” I press.
“Friends. He was trying to throw Don off. It’s standard.”
“Well, he picked the wrong girl to mess with.”
Adam gets to his feet and hands me my sweater.
Don and the team are busy being interviewed, and though I try to catch his eye, he doesn’t look my way. I hate to just bail like this, but I really need to get out of here—the air’s hot and stuffy, and I’m scared a Cardinals fan might come after me.
I trail Adam out to the parking lot, relishing the icy wind on my skin.
“Wait for me in the car, I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, tossing me his keys before evaporating into the crowd.
I stalk across the parking lot and lean against the trunk, jinglinghis keys in the palm of my hand as a minute turns into ten turns into fifteen. If I didn’t have these, I could make my own way home, but as it is, I need to wait for Adam.
I pull an e-book up on my phone and start reading, when suddenly I hear voices. I jerk my head up. The other team’s bus is parked right there. I narrow my eyes. Someone is striding over toward me. I suppress a shiver. Number 34.
I fumble in my pocket, but it’s too late. By the time my fingers brush against the keys, he’s already here.
“Hey!”
I tilt my chin up defiantly and bat back a lukewarm “Hey.”
“Luke Berenson.” He holds out a hand, which I ignore. “I’ve come to restore my honor.”
“You’re not planning on flashing me, are you?”
He laughs. “Nice car,” he says, nodding in approval.
