Hooped #5 (The Hooped Interracial Romance Series #5)
Page 6
Chapter Ten
It was finally the day of the Championship game; I shouldn’t have been able to get a ticket—they were sold out, and the tickets for the special reserved section were full of alumni and family members of the team—but somehow Devon had managed to convince the school that I absolutely deserved to be in those very prime seats, cheering him on. Even if I hadn’t been dating Devon, I would have absolutely been thrilled to be able to go to the game, since it promised to be an intense one. I had taken the opportunity to look at the other team’s stats while Devon was getting ready to leave for the arena, and they had a star player in the same position Devon played; in fact, of all the teams that our school had gone up against, the one we were playing for the championship title was the most like ours.
But Devon, I knew, was the better player, just as I knew that our team was overall stronger—although, I realized as I made my way into the arena, my heart already beating faster, that they could have been spending the weeks preparing just as aggressively as our team had. It was definitely going to be a high-scoring game, and I was anxious to watch it. Part of me was worried for Devon; I knew that if we didn’t score a decisive victory, he would blame himself for not having enough time to prepare, having to take time away from the team due to his previous bad behavior. But I also knew that he was going to play his heart out and that the team was very strong. If they somehow didn’t eke out a win, then it would not be anyone’s fault—it would just be that the other team had some advantage, some form of luck, that we didn’t have.
If I had thought that the arena was loud the other times that I’d been inside of it to watch one of the main season’s games, as I came out of the tunnel and into the stands, it was absolutely deafening. The other school’s team had brought busloads of their students to the game, and across the court from them I could see that there were just as many alumni. We were hosting the championship—giving us the home-court advantage—so I thought that the other school must have put a lot of money into getting everyone here from across the state. My body tingled all over, my heart pounded in my chest, as I made my way to my seat, looking out over the enormous crowd of people, still growing larger and larger by the moment. I wanted to jump up and down, I wanted to scream and cheer with the rest of the people in the crowd, but I knew that it would be a long game—and an intense one. The two teams were not even on the court yet; over the screams and shouts, I could barely make out the sound of the two marching bands playing their competing tunes.
I sat down in my seat, smiling to myself as the excitement of the crowd started to stir something up inside of me. Around me, alumni and family members of the various team members started to take their own seats; I recognized some of the people that Devon had introduced me to, and they recognized me as well. “You’re Devon’s girlfriend, right? His tutor?” One of the men grinned as he spoke to me. I nodded, laughing and giddy. “You must be some tutor! I heard he got a near-perfect score.”
“Same score that I got when I took the test,” I shouted back, in order to be heard over the roar of the crowd.
“He got quite a catch with you, then!” The guy said, grinning at me again. I blushed, but I couldn’t help but feel proud. Before I had left for the game, I had carefully dressed myself in school colors; although I didn’t want to look gaudy or cheesy, I knew that at such a big game, the section I was in was likely to make it on the TV, and I wanted to not only look my best but also look supportive. I had drawn Devon’s number onto one of my cheeks with face paint, but I didn’t go overboard; some of the fans in the stands above me had painted their entire faces, or even their bodies, with school colors and with the name of the school, or particular players’ numbers. The girls in the stands were a riot of color, holding up signs, already jumping and screaming.
Finally, the two teams took to the court at the same time to warm up. As Devon came out onto the floor, I started cheering, unable to help myself. On his way to the side of the court where he would warm up with his teammates, he glanced into the crowd and found me in my spot. The grin he gave me—full of his usual charm and enthusiasm, the grin that I knew was for me and me alone—was enough to send a little jolt through me, to make me cheer even louder.
I watched the two teams, trying to divide my attention without neglecting Devon, who glanced at me occasionally as he warmed up. The team we were playing against was strong; I could see from the tightness of their drills that they had been putting the time between their last game and the championship to good use. But their star isn’t as good as Devon, I reminded myself proudly. I fidgeted and shifted, moving to my feet and watching as the two teams got ready for the game of their lives. I could see cameras flashing, and just in front of me, there were sports news crews and journalists capturing the event. It was going to be a hell of a game, and everyone knew it.
It seemed like hours passed as the two teams warmed up, and I knew that I wasn’t the only one who was relieved when they both headed back to their benches, the coaches sending out only those players who were going to be the starters. As Devon made his way to center court, he looked up at me in the stands, catching my eye and giving me a quick wink, as if to tell me—as he had at the first game I had gone to as his girlfriend—that it was all for me. The crowd went dead silent as the ref came to the center, and the two teams arranged themselves for the tip-off. I held my breath unconsciously; my hands gripped into tight fists in the few seconds between the ref’s arrival and when the ball went up into the air.
The other team grabbed possession of the ball, and everything exploded into movement as they tried to make their way towards our basket. The stands once more erupted into screaming and cheering, and I was the loudest one in my section, jumping up and down, watching the game with an intensity that I had never had in my life before. Devon stole the ball just before the other team’s star player could throw his shot, and my stomach lurched inside of me with excitement and dread as I watched him make his way with his other teammates to the other side of the court. Devon dodged one steal—and I remembered practicing with him, remembered the hours we had devoted to him becoming better and better at avoiding that particular move, with a grin.
Our team scored the first basket of the game, and the crowd went absolutely wild around me. The other team managed to block Devon’s next shot, and then they got a basket as well. Through the first half of the game, the players traveled back and forth—sometimes scoring points, sometimes having the ball stolen, and within minutes I was drenched in sweat from the heat rolling off of the crowd behind me in waves, and from my own movements and cheering. We scored, and then they scored; they scored, and then we intercepted the ball to prevent another basket, and then Devon landed a three-pointer. Back and forth, the two teams ran, and I couldn’t even hear their sneakers against the floor, couldn’t even hear anything at all from the court itself as the shrieks from the two sides of the stands filled the air around me.
All throughout the first half, Devon would glance up at me, either to simply smile, or in a few cases to wave; but for the most part he was absolutely focused, pressing forward, quick on his feet, snatching the ball away at the last possible moment. By the time the two teams went to the lockers for half time, I was already exhausted, and I couldn’t even imagine how Devon still had the energy to keep running, keep dribbling, keep shooting.
When the teams came back out again after the break, I was on my feet once more, not caring that my throat was already hoarse, cheering like a maniac. Devon was right in the thick of the game once more, only taking a quick break in the third quarter to grab some water before running back onto the court. The scores on both sides kept going up, and I felt more and more pride as Devon managed to sink almost every single basket he attempted; even though I wasn’t playing with him, I knew that this was, in a real sense, an accomplishment for both of us. If I hadn’t helped him pass the ACT, then he wouldn’t be there to lead the team. It was the first of what I was suddenly certain would be many joint accomplishm
ents through our relationship—and it was the flashiest possible way of showing everyone watching just what a good partnership we had.
By the end of the third quarter, it was obvious that both teams were starting to become exhausted. The play was not as fast as it had been in the first half—understandably so, I thought—and each team was struggling to break out ahead of the other. We were ahead by only two points—and then as the fourth quarter started, we were once more neck and neck with the other team. Devon looked up at the stands, and I jumped up and down, screaming, cheering him on; I was determined not to let him down, not to let my energy flag for even a moment, so that he would know I supported him all the way.
The other school’s team pulled ahead, and as the last minute of the quarter started, it was 74-72—a high-scoring game for college, one for the sports history books. Devon stole the ball and passed it to Miles, who sank a basket, leaving the two teams once more dead even. The star player for the other team managed to snatch the ball away, and everyone on both sides held their breath as he darted across the court. My heart was in my throat; if our defense didn’t hold, the guy would have just enough time to land the game-winning basket. Just when I was wound as tightly as I could possibly be, Devon darted in next to the guy and stole the ball.
There were only seconds left in the game. Devon raced across the court, and I clenched my teeth so tightly that my jaw began to ache as I watched him. He didn’t have time to make a two-point shot—he stopped at the three-point line and threw the ball in as beautiful an arc as I had ever seen in my entire life. Everyone in the stands held their breath as the clock ticked down the final seconds of the championship game, even as the ball raced towards the basket. I nearly fell down in my seat as it went in—a beautiful, gorgeous shot, one that I hoped someone had thought to capture on film. The silence broke into one deafening cheer, and I felt my heart swell with pride as Devon’s gaze turned towards me, picking me out of the crowd, the man I loved sharing his moment of victory with me. All I could do was stand there and smile, my knees weak, holding Devon’s gaze. Later, I’d be with him alone; for now, we had both managed to win—and that was enough for me.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams