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I bounce my knees nervously, wishing I had something to do with my hands other than wring them out. Kayla looks over at me, and I realize how weird I’m being. I slide my hands over my knees and offer up a smile. She eyes me suspiciously before getting distracted by her nachos.
The lights in the stadium suddenly go black, and the crowd roars. The noise level inside the Staples Center is at an ear-piercing all-time high. The center bank of screens and scoreboards hanging above the court start blinking neon colors in time with the music. An announcer encourages everyone to welcome the Utah Jazz as they take the court, and most everyone does the exact opposite. There’re a few errant cheers, but this home crowd is loyal and saves all its love for when the announcer starts to list off the starting lineup for Los Angeles one by one, building up the suspense.
It’s such a huge production. Flashing lights and plumes of smoke and pulsing music accompanies each player as they emerge from the locker room to screams and cheers from the crowd.
With all my worrying about Ben, I hadn’t even considered the fact that I would know the other players taking the court.
“Number fifteen, ANTHONY BRADSHAW!”
The announcer’s booming voice sends goose bumps cascading down my arms.
I whistle and clap as loud as I can, genuinely excited. “Go Anthony!”
Then I look over to see my friends staring at me oddly.
“Are you a big fan?” Kayla teases.
I shrug and lean back in my chair. “Just being nice. I would want people to clap for me too.”
Fortunately, they brush off my enthusiasm, and when Trey takes the court next, I rein it in a little.
Still, I can’t keep a huge smile from spreading across my face. This really is cool. When I first met the guys, it was in my diner, in my tiny neck of the woods. It was easy to forget who they are in real life.
“And now, your three-time NBA finals MVP, Western Conference Player of the Year, number twenty-eight, BEN CASTILLO!”
The stadium rumbles as the cacophony of cheering fans roars louder than ever. I feel the noise drumming in my chest. My heart pulses to Drake’s “Forever” blaring from the speakers as Ben emerges from the dark tunnel out onto the court.
At first, he walks with his head ducked, his attention down at his feet. He jogs out, wearing the team’s dark purple tracksuit over his jersey. I can see nothing but his tall frame and rich brown hair, highlighted by the neon colors. I don’t blink, don’t breathe. Time ceases to exist as he slowly lifts his head to look out at the crowd, and the air rushes out of me as if I’ve just been struck square in the chest by a well-aimed arrow.
It hurts more than I expected.
God. He looks good. Better than anyone should look. It’s horribly unfair. His dark brown hair is trimmed shorter than the last time I saw him but still blessedly carries a hint of curl on top. His patrician nose, dark brows, and sharp cheekbones bear no mark of peace. He’s a soldier walking onto the battlefield. His intimidating jaw is clean-shaven, and he looks utterly focused as he joins the rest of his team on the court.
The lights come back up and the players immediately start running through short drills. Utah sticks to one side, Los Angeles across from them. I watch with rapt attention as the players warm up before tip-off, basketballs flying toward the net three at a time as the players pass and move aside quickly.
My stomach squeezes tight as I stare at Ben, completely mesmerized. His handsome face is a mask of determination. I’ve never seen him look so severe. It almost takes me back to the first time I saw him at the gas station, when he seemed closed off and unapproachable, before I knew him. It’s his game face, and I’m sure it works wonders.
Just when my heart rate finally starts to settle and I think I’ve come to terms with his unholy hotness, Anthony passes by him and says something as they bump shoulders. Ben smiles and my mouth gapes open.
Okay.
There we have it, folks—I’ve just caught my death.
That smile on that face is just it for me. Put me in my grave.
“He’s so freaking hot,” Kayla says before proceeding to shout at the top of her lungs. “Ben! BEN! WE LOVE YOU!”
I drop for cover like I’m in the middle of a war zone. Then I grab Kayla’s arm and yank her down beside me. “Are you insane?” I hiss.
“Ow! You’re hurting me!”
“Don’t shout his name! He’ll hear us!”
She’s looking at me like I’m certifiable. “You mean among all the other fans also screaming his name?”
I loosen my grip, and she extracts her arm and shakes it out exaggeratedly.
