Game On: A High School Bully Romance (The Ballers of Rockport High Book 1)

by E. M. Moore

  Game On

  The Ballers of Rockport High

  Book One

  By

  E. M. Moore

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by E. M. Moore. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact E. M. Moore at emmoorewrites@hotmail.com.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition June 2019

  Contents

  Also By E. M. Moore

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Foul Line

  About the Author

  Safe Haven Academy Series

  Safe Haven Academy Series Blurb

  Also By E. M. Moore

  Ravana Clan Vampires Series

  Chosen By Darkness

  Into the Darkness

  Falling For Darkness

  Surrender To Darkness

  Ravana Clan Legacy Series

  A New Genesis

  Tracking Fate

  Cursed Gift

  Veiled History

  Fractured Vision

  Chosen Destiny

  Order of the Akasha Series

  Stripped (Prequel)

  Summoned By Magic

  Tempted By Magic

  Ravished By Magic

  Indulged By Magic

  Enraged By Magic

  Her Alien Scouts Series

  Kain Encounters

  Kain Seduction

  Rise of the Morphings Series

  Of Blood and Twisted Roots

  Safe Haven Academy Series

  A Sky So Dark

  A Dawn So Quiet

  Chronicles of Cas Series

  Reawakened

  Hidden

  Power

  Severed

  Rogue

  The Adams’ Witch Series

  Bound In Blood

  Cursed In Love

  Witchy Librarian Cozy Mystery Series

  Wicked Witchcraft

  One Wicked Sister

  Wicked Cool

  Wicked Wiccans

  1

  Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt for school… This is weird.

  I’m used to the pleated skirts and suit coats of Broadwell Academy. I don’t even want to admit how many outfits I changed in and out of over the last several days before I decided on the plain jean shorts and simple heather gray shirt for my first day at Rockport High. Already I feel the nerves setting in. What am I doing? Like really, what the fuck am I doing? Who willingly goes from a private school to a public one? The answer comes easily—at least to me. Many wouldn’t agree, but, like my father used to say, there’s only one of me. Crazy decisions and all, I’ll take it.

  My sneakers thud against the hardwoods as I head down for breakfast. I turn the corner at the base of the stairs and walk into the open kitchen. Light spills in from every corner of the room. I’m headed straight for the cereal cupboard when I hear the sniffles near the breakfast nook. I stop. For a moment, I just stand there. Then, I turn slowly seeing exactly what I knew I would. My mother is in her pink bathrobe, hair oily with dark circles under her eyes. Used tissues are in a small pile in front of her. When she peeks up at me, she looks like she’s aged several years all in the span of a few weeks.

  I don’t blame her.

  “Hey,” she says, her lips pulling tight into a smile. She quickly picks up all the balled-up tissues and stands, storing them in her clenched fists like that’s all she has to do to hide the fact that she’s been crying again.

  The truth is, I didn’t expect her to be up. Her appearance at this early hour startles me. A part of me, an ever-growing part I shamefully admit, is mad at her. Why couldn’t she stay in bed like she has been? I don’t need another problem added to my plate this morning. There’s already going to be a ton to get through. I raise my hand awkwardly in a small wave, not like I’m saying ‘good morning’ to the woman who birthed me at all. “Breakfast,” I tell her artfully, like she would never understand why I’m in the kitchen at this time of the morning.

  “I know,” she says. She whisks past me, opening the cupboard that holds the trash before disposing of her evidence and then stands in front of the stovetop looking at me. “Eggs?”

  I shrug. The shoulder of my shirt falls down, so I yank it back up. “I was just going to have some cereal. Don’t bother,” I tell her with a smile. I’m hoping she gets the hint and lets me do this in peace.

  “I can make you eggs. Or, if you’d rather, French toast? Pancakes?”

  She starts listing off every breakfast food imaginable, but can’t a girl just get some cereal if she wants it? “Mom,” I say, interrupting her. I want to tell her making breakfast for me isn’t going to bring Dad back. Deep down, I know she knows that, so I just move forward and open the cupboard to reach in for the Raisin Bran. “I’m all set. Promise. Cereal actually sounds good to me.”

  Mom bites her lip as she watches me set the box of cereal down at the table in the breakfast nook and then go back into the kitchen for a bowl, spoon, and milk. “You look so different,” she says. Her voice is that high, tight, phony sound. “I’m not used to you going off to school looking so…casual.”

  I smile at her over my shoulder. “No uniforms at Rockport High.” This might be the second greatest thing about switching schools. The first is way more complicated than comfortable clothing.

  The bags under her eyes darken at the mention of Rockport High. I turn back around and pour the cereal into my bowl. She pads over to me softly. As soon as I set the milk down after splashing some all over my raisin-dotted cereal, she puts her hand on top of mine. “You don’t have to do this. You know that, right?”

  I swallow. I have no idea why she thinks I’m doing this to help us. I’m not. It’s practically the most selfish thing I’ve ever done, but again, no one understands why I’m doing it because they’re not me. “I think I’m going to love it there,” I say truthfully, shoving a spoonful of cereal in my mouth.

  The area between her brows pulls together, causing her usual pristine skin to wrinkle. The moment after, it’s smoothed out again like I imagined the whole thing. “I hope so, kiddo.”

  After that, I quickly eat my cereal, dump my dishes in the sink, and then stand in front of the huge mirror in the foyer. My bookbag is already hanging from the foyer closet doorknob. Smoothing my
hands down my shirt, I take a look at myself and breathe in deep. Even though I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise, I know this won’t be easy. In fact, it’s going to suck. I’m willingly transferring during my junior year of high school. I’m insane. Or, as I prefer, driven.

  A thought pops into my head, but before I can fully explore it, I tamp it back down. I’m going to deal with that mess when it comes to it. And it will come to it. Probably in a fiery train wreck of insults and bruised egos.

  My mom’s footsteps echo from the kitchen and then she’s turning the corner toward me. “Have a good day at school, sweetie. Is there anything you need me to do for your first day? Drive you? Walk you in?”

  With a quick shake of my head, I tell her no. After one last look at myself, I grab my bag and then turn toward the door. “See you around three,” I call out over my shoulder as I leave the thick, overbearing walls of my house. The rooms are getting smaller and smaller, almost collapsing around Mom and me even though we’re the only ones here anymore. When I jump into my car, I stare up at the house I grew up in. I’d always loved this house. When I was younger, it was a sprawling maze of cool rooms and games. As I got older, I realized not everyone had a pool, an indoor theater, and a full-size basketball court. Most of my friends at the private school had the former, but not the latter.

  The basketball court was just special for us—Dad and I.

  I shake my head, turning away from the home that used to hold love, and drive down the driveway. At the end of the blacktop, I take a right down the twisty road to the valley, making an effort not to look at the big TD initials carved and welded in steel that are drilled into the brick columns that enclose the mouth of our driveway. The only thing I wonder is when Mom’s going to remember they’re there and remove them too.

  The drive down to the valley—and Rockport High—isn’t that long. It’s also filled with some of the most amazing views of the coast I’ve ever seen. Actually, of any coast I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been fortunate to have seen a lot. The lower I go into the valley, the more my stomach twists. A name is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t dare let myself think it. Or bring up his face. Or the sound of his voice.

  I turn the radio up louder. Coupled with the breeze in my hair from having the top down on my Mustang, it’s almost like I can drown my own thoughts out. It’s peaceful out here, and suddenly, I’m glad I’ll have this drive every day to let the tension ease before school.

  Eventually though, the one-story brick structure of Rockport High looms in front of me. The whole facade is lined in windows and easily takes up a whole block before the Teflon-coated, fiberglass inflatable basketball dome at the back rises in the air. Timothy Dale Court.

  Ask me how I know that.

  I blow out a breath. This is it, I tell myself. The point of no return. I’m sure my mother couldn’t care less if I came right back home and told her to re-enroll me back at Broadwell. Then, she could go on lying to herself that the separation between her and my father hasn’t impacted me one bit. I don’t give in to the fantasy though. I’m stronger than that. I know I am. Instead, I take a right into the student parking lot, slowing to a crawl so I don’t run any of my fellow classmates over.

  It takes me a moment to realize it’s going slower than it should because everyone is looking at me. For a moment, my face heats, and I wonder if I’ve forgotten to put a shirt on or something. It is my first day of school with normal clothes after all, but then I realize it’s not me they’re looking at. Not necessarily. It’s my car. They’re all gaping at it. I’m only the last flick of their gaze before they turn away, eyes narrowed.

  I swallow, my chest suddenly tight. Out of everything I worried about, I didn’t think about this.

  When I see an open parking space, I press on the gas a little harder than I mean to. I just want to be parked and out of this beacon-like car already. There goes my ‘just blend in with everyone else’ goal. I don’t want to be the new girl, or even worse, his daughter. That’s coming. It’s unavoidable, but I’d like to prolong it for as long as I can. The only thing is, when I press on the gas a little too hard, the engine revs. I grimace as the Mustang’s motor roars and I take off quicker than I intend. People are outright gawking now. They’ve even stopped on the sidewalks leading to the front doors just to stare at me.

  I just look straight ahead, acting as if I meant to do that and turn into the parking spot I spied. With a press of a button, the top on my car is unfolding into place. I wait inside, hoping to hide for a little while before I have to head in. I already have my schedule. I’ve already been to this school numerous times. Even though it’s never been for educational purposes, I know my way around. It won’t take me long to orientate myself.

  A guy and girl walk by my car. The girl has her hand in the back pocket of her boyfriend’s shorts. He looks over his shoulder and whistles. He’s not whistling at me. I know that because the next thing out of his mouth is, “Nice wheels.”

  His girlfriend squeezes his butt and says, “Nice ass.”

  He turns back around, bending over while they’re still walking to kiss her on the mouth. The intimacy of that act makes me look away, cheeks burning. PDA was strictly forbidden on academy grounds. Not that it wasn’t rampant everywhere else, but I have to remind myself that Rockport High is a whole other world than what I’m used to. With a short breath, I haul my backpack into my lap and then swing my car door open. Stepping out, I push the door closed and look in the direction of the main entrance.

  A Jeep comes careening into the lot. Students have to dodge out of the way as the horn blows. The vehicle stops just in front of the main entrance and four guys jump out before it takes off again, whipping around the lot. Two of the guys who jumped out slap hands and then move toward the glass doors with the others.

  I lean on the hood of my car, my hand reaching out automatically to steady myself as soon as I recognize them. There they are. I knew they’d be impossible to miss. They walk toward the school just like they walked around the grounds of camp—all ease and swag.

  It’s The Rock Ballers.

  I watch them walk into school, confidence wafting off them in waves. My heart tells me again that this is a terrible idea, but I ignore it anyway and take my first shaky step toward Rockport High, my new alma mater.

  2

  As unextraordinary as it sounds, the first few periods of the day go by without a hitch. I’m almost surprised that I skate by unnoticed. Sure, people look at me because I’m the new girl, but it’s not like it’s middle school or elementary school. None of the teachers are making me stand in front of the class telling everyone my name and where I’m from. If they didn’t recognize the name, they’d recognize Broadwell Academy and that’s all it would take to get labeled everything I don’t want.

  Rockport and Broadwell are notorious arch enemies. It’s the rich looking down at the poor and the poor thinking all rich people are assholes. And that’s before we add in the rivalry aspect. Rockport and Broadwell don’t even play in the same sports divisions, but because the schools are so close to one another, we scrimmage. The basketball scrimmages? Holy shit. It’s like War of the Worlds. It’s even televised on freaking TV. Bookies take bets. It’s the real thing with businesses flashing colors of their teams, bar fights over ref calls. You name it, we’ve seen it.

  Once upon a time, I was a part of it all, too.

  When I pull my bookbag over my shoulder after the fourth period bell, I take my time grabbing the sheet of notes I wrote during History class while waiting for everyone else to file out of the room. By the time everyone else is gone, it’s too late to notice that the history teacher, Mr. Schaffer, is staring at me. My cheeks burn, but I stare at the ground and move toward the exit. Trying to be invisible won’t work though. “Miss Dale.”

  I stop where I’m at. I was never this shy at Broadwell, but I already feel as if I don’t belong here, so there’s that. With a breath, I finally raise my head to look at him. I give him a sma
ll smile.

  He smiles back. “Are you Timothy’s daughter?”

  I nod, feeling a little more relaxed. At least he didn’t ask me what everyone usually does.

  “I graduated with him,” he says. “Knew him before…” His voice trails off. I know where he’s going with this, but again, he doesn’t say anything directly.

  I wonder why. Is what’s happening written all over my face? Can he tell by just the hour I spent in his class that things back home are a freaking mess?

  I shake my head. It isn’t possible. Just like no one can tell I’m from Broadwell Academy, no one can tell just by looking at me that my parents are separating. It only feels like they can because it’s at the forefront of my every thought. “Cool,” I say finally, not knowing how else to answer.

  He smiles at me again, and I take that as my cue that I can take off for lunch. By the time I leave the classroom, there’s only a smattering of people in the halls. All the way down, there’s a couple making out against the lockers. There’s also a younger boy running with a notebook in his hand. He runs right past me without giving me a second look. I take off in the opposite direction of the kissing couple even though it’s taking the long way around to the cafeteria. I’m not exactly thrilled for this part of the day anyway. Is there anything worse than trying to figure out where you’re going to eat lunch? I’d rather go outside to eat, but Rockport doesn’t let its students leave the building during school at all. I’ll have to eat at a table…or starve.