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And boy did he play.
He might not have been the best athlete on the floor, but what he lacked in talent, he made up for in enthusiasm. When Southeast scored another two points, Hillsburg took possession of the ball. We no sooner passed it in bounds before Ryder Yates appeared, whacking it out of our control. He wasn’t able to recover the ball, but another Southeast player did. Ryder hauled his hiney up court and was the first to reach the other end. A teammate heaved the ball his way. He caught it and dribbled in for a basket, only for a Hillsburg senior to foul him.
As the shot went astray, Ryder Yates and the Hillsburg player became tangled in a wad of arms and legs. They tumbled to the floor, rolling and skidding out of bounds on their backs, nearly torpedoing into my legs and taking me out with them. I leapt back, narrowly saving myself, and my camera.
Number forty-two looked up just as the momentum of his slide gave out. Our gazes met.
When he recognized me, he gave a grin that lit up his entire face. Pointing, he called from the floor, “Change your name yet?”
Before I could answer or even react, two of his teammates appeared and held down their hands. Ryder accepted one from each boy and let them tug him to his feet. As he became vertical, his eyes sought mine. He winked before turning away and trotting to the free throw line for his foul shots. There, he made his first basket but missed the next. His teammates passed by, congratulating him and slapping him on the back as they hurried toward the other end of the court.
From that point on, I decided it’d be safer to take my pictures from the stands. I returned to Bridget, who’d obviously witnessed my second round with Ryder Yates.
“What’d he say this time?” she had to know as soon as I plopped down next to her. I told her, and she gasped. “So, how’d you answer?”
I sighed, hoping she’d presume I had grown bored with the subject and leave me alone.
No such luck.
“Did you tell him your name?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t have time. His teammates came and swept him away before I could say anything.” Not that I would’ve been able to respond. If given enough time, I probably would’ve tucked my tail between my legs and booked it out of there. Again.
Bridget must’ve realized this too. She moaned as if supremely let down. “Grace.” Even the two-syllable way she said my name sounded disappointed. “You’re going to have to have to talk to someone from that school soon. They’re going to be your fellow classmates, you know. I can’t stand the thought of you going over there all by yourself and having no friends.”
My shoulders slumped. Great, she had to bring out the big guns to make me feel guilty, didn’t she?
“I will, I will,” I promised her. “But not tonight. Tonight, I’m still a Hillsburg student and a Hillsburg fan. And I refuse to consort with the enemy.”
There. That sounded good. Or so I thought. From the look on Bridget’s face, I could tell she saw straight through my excuse. She pursed her lips and squinted her eyes, eyeing me with a critical once over that saw more than I felt comfortable revealing.
But instead of pressing the issue, she said, “Fine. But I’m onto you. If they make you miserable, I’m going to…I’m going to…” She sighed. I think we both realized it was an empty threat. She could do nothing to protect me once I left.
Though she had nothing to back her warning, I grinned and threw an arm over her shoulder, touched by her concern. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re the best friend ever.”
* * * *
Southeast won the ball game. Big shocker, huh? Yeah, I wasn’t too amazed either. But the visitors’ section went wild with applause. I guess this had been their biggest victory spread yet. Of course, even I had to admit beating us seventy-six to twenty-three was impressive.
Sighing out a depressed puff of air, I packed my camera away and followed Bridget down the stands to the floor. We waited behind a thick horde of people, shifting a foot forward every few seconds as the glacier-slow crowd inched toward the exit.
Beside me, Bridge chattered about school, classes, and assignments. I didn’t pay much attention, lost in thought over how it was all about to end. This had been my last time to cheer as a Hillsburg Viking, my last week of school with students I’d known since kindergarten.
Soon, it’d all be different.
“Get any good pictures?”
The question came from behind me, spoken in a voice I’d only heard twice but knew I wouldn’t soon forget.
I tensed and stumbled a step, shooting a panicked, help-me flinch toward Bridget. Then I pulled in a breath and glanced over my shoulder.
Still dressed in his purple and white jersey with the number forty-two branded across his chest, Ryder Yates grinned. Sweat made his face glow and his eyes sparkle with vitality.
I arched a brow, thinking that might make me look as confident as I wanted to feel. “Loads,” I answered, lifting my nose and turning back to move another two feet forward.
“Good,” he said, following along behind me. “I hope you got a couple of me.”
Shoot! Why hadn’t I thought to take a picture of him? I couldn’t beg Bridge to give me a copy of the one she’d taken either, or she’d know how much I liked his attention to me.
