When we get our food, Ben walks with me to a table in the back of the cafeteria. None of the senior players left campus for lunch today. They have to be on the bus for Des Moines in thirty minutes.
With everybody here, it’s crowded. The cheerleaders are in uniform and keyed up. The drill team is doing the “cup thing” with their plastic water tumblers, beating out a rhythm that echoes across the room, adding to the general pandemonium. Christy and Rachel are already sitting with Lindsey at the end of another table with some of the other girls from soccer. We’re all wearing our blue BUCCANEER hoodies today. Even in the face of everything else going on, we want to show solidarity.
As Ben slides his tray across from LeRon and Kyle, he pulls out my chair. “You guys ready?” he asks.
There’s no answer. Both of them continue shoveling in bites of cheeseburger. Finally, Kyle glances up at Ben and nods. “As we’ll ever be.”
The images of Kyle and LeRon pointing and laughing in the video play over and over in my head, but I try to smile and force myself to speak. “Are you nervous? I always get so nervous before a game.”
LeRon looks at me, then shakes his head and goes back to his food.
Rachel sees this, and jumps in. “Yeah, me too. Crazy butterflies.”
“We’ll be there cheering you on,” says Christy.
LeRon looks up at me. “You coming, too?”
Big smile. Everything’s fine. “You bet.”
He glances at Ben, then back at me. “Take good notes.”
“What?” I ask.
Kyle smirks. “So you can write your report about the whole thing.”
My stomach drops and I see Ben’s face turn to stone. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Aw, c’mon, man.” LeRon drops back in his chair, dragging a couple fries through ketchup. “Your girl can’t let this go.”
I glance down the table. Cheerleaders, drillers, benchwarmers, starters, Reggie slouched at the end, laughing into his tray. Every face straight ahead. Every eye turned toward me. Sideways. Watching, without seeing me. Listening, without hearing me. They’ve already made up their minds. I realize I’m still holding a turkey sandwich I can’t imagine ever bringing to my lips.
Ben, Rachel, and Christy all explode at the same time.
Shut the fuck up.
Leave her alone.
You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
There’s an argument I can’t hear, followed by a silence that is deafening. In the awkward moments that come after, I glance across the room and see Phoebe, looking over at our table. She’s sitting with another cheerleader named Amy. Dooney always used to joke that Amy was only on the squad because they needed a “solid base.” Phoebe gives me a shy smile. I nod once and look away, wondering if she’s heard the rumors, too.
Before Ben gets on the bus he tells me not to worry. He gives Christy a high five, Rachel a fist bump, and Lindsey a smile, then pulls me aside and gives me a hug.
“You’re finally getting out of here,” I say. “At least for a night.”
“Get packed,” he says with a wink. “You’re coming, too.”
He kisses me, then climbs onto the bus. The trace of his lips lingers for a long time, even after the bus of Buccaneers has rolled away from the news vans and protestors toward the tournament, effectively trading one battle for another.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
thirty-eight
I WAS WRONG about the satellite trucks.
When we pull into the parking lot at Wells Fargo Arena in Des Moines, there’s a whole area for news vans, and it’s packed. There must be thirty of them, lined up from all over.
Iowa basketball is a big deal—even if you’re a high school team. I “knew” this, but I didn’t really know this until we file inside the arena. It’s massive. It could seat the population of my entire town, and still have room for another four thousand people.
With twenty thousand people in the same room, it’s hard to stand out. For the first time in a couple weeks, it’s nice to feel invisible. No one cares who I am. No one is looking at me—even sideways. As we fight toward our seats through the throngs of people, I’m almost giddy with relief that no one is staring after me. Lindsey notices this, too.
“So weird not to see Sloane Keating lurking somewhere,” she says.
“Keep an eye open,” I warn her. “She might jump out at any moment.” Lindsey laughs, and suddenly it feels like the last two weeks are a bad dream. Rachel and Christy are as wound up as Will, each of them talking over the other. Will drapes his arm around Rachel’s shoulder every now and then to see if he can get away with acting like “a baller.” Rachel jabs her fingernail into his ribs every time he says that or refers to himself as “Pistol,” and takes to calling him “Pipsqueak” instead.