“And then it was over! We went back to normal!”
“Normal as in never speaking?”
“Uh…yes!” Brittney exclaimed like I’d just pointed out that the sky was blue. “Or are you suggesting that everyone who’s ever kissed you becomes obsessed with you andmustorbit your space until you say so?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but what I’m hearing is I didn’t give you groupie energy, so you decided to embarrass me.”
Okay, well when she said it like that, I did get the optics.
In short, no girl hadevermade me moan like that night. In the grand scheme of queerness or being a lesbian or whatever I would call myself—soft masc? Stud lite? I didn’t know—either way, I was used to being the top, taking charge, making someone moanmy name.
But how the hell was I supposed to tell Brittney I wanted to scream her name, damn who would hear? Instead, she shut down as if nothing had happened. As if four years of momentum of our on the court push and pull would’ve resulted in a bathroom make-out then never speaking again. But I refused to bare my soul to that level—especially to Brittney, who wouldn’t receive it.
So I relented and gave her what she needed to hear. “Yeah, I guess. I’m sorry, it was fucked up for me to do that.”
“Indeed.”
The tension was killing me; this needed to end. “So what’s the odds you push me down the stairs?”
“It went from fifty percent down to…forty five.” Brittney shrugged.
I nodded. “Progress.”
“For now.”
I stepped away from her suitcase adorned in random stickers of puns and dad jokes. She didn’t glare at me, so it was a win for me. My job was done for the day, and I had two aunts to yell at.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nola
Six years ago
Final Four
I didn’t realize I had an internal clock silently ticking as the days turned into weeks, which turned into months until I saw her again.
It had been eight months since I saw Brittney Lee.
Eight months since I should’ve asked for her number, but now it was too late. At this point, it would look too weird—I would look like I was a weird lesbian crushing over a girl when I didn’t even know which way she swung.
Brittney kept appearing in the deepest parts of my subconscious. I wanted to send her more annoying college sports takes, more lists that had me as the one to watch and not, possibly more deservedly, her. I wanted to find more ways to talk to her—but the rational part of my brain won whenever I was close to sending a DM asking for her number if our conversations went on longer than usual.
But it was like she had wanted to talk to me, too.
However, none of that mattered now that March Madness had turned me into a basketball-playing robot. I only thought when the ball was in my hand, I only laughed when we pulled out a win, and I only talked to my teammates. If it wasn’t for Daya living in our on-campus apartment, she wouldn’t see me for practically the whole month.
I was grateful that the final four and national championship gave us three days in the same city, and that our school could afford for us to fly in instead of taking the bus route. I’d do anything in order for my team to not see me turn green from motion sickness, no matter how quickly I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow we faced off against Syracuse while USC went head to head with South Carolina. Brittney already corrected me on who the real USC was not too long after we began DMing after Spain, so unfortunately, my blatant ignorance no longer worked on her.
I kept track of the separate schedules all four teams operated, and as if fate were to blame, Notre Dame and USC had completely opposite schedules. We were barely on the same side of the hotel or arena when either of us were in practices or media rooms for press conferences. Any hope of seeing Brittney or Farrah flew out the window the moment we were sent our practice schedules and media commitments.
But for some reason, hope kept my head on a swivel.
I had a strict ten o’clock bedtime the night before every game, but my dad convinced me to grab frozen yogurt for dessert. And of course, I exited the elevator of our team’s hotel to find a small group of boys getting his autograph.
