In my dream, I make shot after shot, but the scoreboard never budges. Jump shots, lay-ups, fades—all perfectly executed, yet worth nothing. Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero. My parents and coaches and teammates all scream at me. Come on, Lexi! What’s wrong with you? Score some points! We need points!

I wake with a start, my chest tight as though a vise is squeezing my heart, my lungs, my ribs. I’m in a strange room, with strange noises. It takes me a moment to realize the room is at the Virginia Beach Sheraton, and the noises are Carmella’s snores. I moan, roll over, and pull the blanket over my head. Stupid dream. I’ve had it many times, over and over again, ever since I was little. But it always seems so real.

 

 

By the time Chris and the rest of the Grand View boy’s team stroll into the arena, my team is up 46-28 with two minutes left on the clock. Seriously? They want us to stay tonight and cheer for their sorry butts, and they can’t even make it by halftime for our game?

I know I should let it slide. No doubt they hit a bunch of traffic in Fredericksburg and had trouble checking into their rooms and yadda, yadda, yadda. But still.

The other team calls a timeout, and we break toward the bench. I sneak a peek across the court at Chris, who smiles and waves and gives me a huge thumbs-up as he points toward the scoreboard. I turn back around and ignore him. Sixteen of those points were mine—one three-pointer, three free throws, and five two-point shots, not that I’m counting—and he missed them all.

I score three more points before the final buzzer. As my teammates celebrate, I pull Coach aside. Somehow I need to get out of watching the afternoon games so I can do that stupid Polar Plunge. “I don’t feel well.”

“You sure? You tore it up today.”

“Thanks, Coach. But, yeah. It’s a stomach thing. Probably that garlic-and-onion bagel I ate this morning. Think I’ll go back to the hotel and take a nap.”

Coach puts her hand to my forehead. “The U Conn scout might want to talk to you. You sure you can’t tough it out?”

I feign disappointment as I clutch at my stomach. “It sucks. But I’m sure.”

Before Coach can finish nodding, I’m out of there. I head back to my room to change and pack a bag with my swimsuit, wet shoes, and a towel. I brush my teeth three times—because garlic-and-onion bagel—and make my way downstairs for my secret rendezvous with Chris. As I enter the lobby, I gaze longingly at the fireplace. Why couldn’t it be that kind of secret rendezvous?

“Lexi!” Chris is standing by the door, holding a huge canvas bag and grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Ready to do this?”

“Where’s Massey?”

“He bailed. Coward.”

I peer into his bag. Four towels and a wool blanket. Boy’s serious. “Nice of you to make it to our game this morning.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

I cross my arms. “You almost did.”

Chris groans. “Right. Blame Briggsy for that. Slept through his alarm. We had to wait a half hour for his lazy butt. And of course, we got backed up in Fredericksburg.”

“Of course.”

“Hey.” Chris places his hand on my shoulder, sending a shiver through me. “You’re not mad, are you? I wanted to be there. You know I did.”

“I know.” Part of me wants to push Chris away, and part of me wants to pull him close and kiss him. And for some reason that I cannot fathom, part of me wants to cry. I blink hard and try to ignore that part of me. “Did you know you’ve only missed six of my games since I started playing in the fourth grade? And that was usually because you had a game at the same time.”

“I did not know that, but it doesn’t surprise me that you do.” Chris sighs. “What do you want me to say, Lexi? I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” And it is. For whatever reason, knowing that he knows that I know he missed most of this morning’s game and that I’m keeping track makes me feel better.

Chris motions toward the front the door. “All right, then. Ready to take the plunge?”

I steal one last yearning glance at the fireplace and sigh. “Sure. Let’s do this.”