Hooped #3 (The Hooped Interracial Romance Series, Book #3)

by Claire Adams

  Kelly was nowhere to be seen when I catapulted myself through the door of our dorm room, and I was relieved; the last thing I wanted was to be held up by another argument with her. I got into my side of the dorm and stripped off my clothes as fast as I could, spritzing a little bit of perfume on my neck, my wrists, my cleavage, and my hips to get rid of the pizza and fried food smell I knew was clinging to me; I didn’t have time to take a shower. I rummaged through my closet and drawers as quickly as I could, picking out a cute skirt that fell to just above my knees along with a tee shirt, in school colors. I kept my hair the way it was, reasoning that there was no need to waste time taking it down and taming it; I put on a little bit of lipstick and slipped on a pair of ankle-high boots and decided that it was good enough. Devon had seen me naked—he wanted to see me having a good time watching him, not dressed up like I was going to a party. I made sure I had my ID in my purse and hurried down the stairs, thankful that I hadn’t made the mistake of wearing heels.

  My heart was pounding in my chest as I rushed across campus, walking so fast I might as well have been running, checking my phone every few moments to make sure I wasn’t going to be late. I had cash with me—mostly my tips from the evening—just in case there was some kind of problem with the ticket that Devon had asked them to hold for me at the box office.

  I was out of breath by the time I got to the box office, my student ID out and my cash ready at hand. Almost everyone was already inside, save for the people milling around for a last cigarette, their tickets already purchased or claimed. “Hi,” I said, taking a few deep breaths to calm the rapid flutter of my heart. “I was told there was a ticket on hold for me?” The woman behind the glass smiled.

  “Can I have your ID, please? I can check and see if you’re on the list.” I nodded and slid my ID onto the counter. I could hear the noise from inside the arena—the game hadn’t started yet, but people were already starting to get warmed up, excited, ready to cheer. The woman in charge of the box office took my ID and pulled out a printed list, looking over the names. “Ah—yep, here you are. Lucky girl, you’ve got court-side seats!” She grinned at me and I knew she knew that I was seeing someone on the team—of course, I thought, the guys on the team would have probably a handful of great tickets at their disposal for friends and family members to use.

  I took my tickets and my ID and hurried into the arena; I could hear the announcement that the two teams would be taking the court for their warm-ups in a matter of minutes. Looking down at my ticket, I figured out the section I was in and rushed to that part of the arena, hoping against hope that I could make it to my seat before Devon took the court and looked around for me. I ran through the corridor and down the stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process, and found my seat.

  I was panting for breath as I stumbled down into the chair, looking out on the court to see what was going on. The cheerleaders were still whipping the crowd on both sides into a frenzy; I had gotten to my seat just in time. I took a moment to catch my breath, and then I was on my feet as the announcer proclaimed that the teams were taking the court in a matter of seconds. The game was against Northwestern, and I watched as the opposing team took the court first, bouncy and agile, none of them sluggish on their feet as they headed to their side of the court to do their drills. A moment later, the announcer called out our team, and I cheered along with everyone else in the crowd, jumping up and down, already caught up in the fervor and excitement. I watched intently and saw Devon come out onto the court; just the sight of him made my heart flutter in my chest in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety or general excitement. The members of the team were bouncing on the balls of their feet, greeting the crowd, and looking out over the stands.

  When Devon’s gaze connected with mine, I felt a little electric jolt, a crackle down my spine that warmed me up all over. I felt myself grinning—unable to help myself—even as I cheered for the team in general. Devon grinned back, changing the way he waved at the crowd in general to the way he waved at me in particular before going back to his hyped-up bouncing.

  The team stripped out of their sweats, revealing their jerseys and shorts, and the sight of Devon’s legs, his arms—knowing what was underneath as well as I did—made me shiver again. I watched as he chatted with Miles, as he talked to other members of the team, stretching and flexing, getting ready to head out to warm up on the court itself. He looked so happy; happier than I had ever seen him at another game. It’s because of you. He’s this happy, this excited, because of you. He loves the game, but he’s really—genuinely—glad you’re here. The thought made me smile even more.

  Devon glanced at me again, giving me a little flirty smile as he ran out onto the court with the rest of the team. They took up their positions on the opposite side from the other team and began to run their drills, warming up as the crowd cheered until I was certain that the entire arena of people would be hoarse the next day. I was cheering and screaming right along with them, though I couldn’t make myself cheer specifically for Devon like some of the girls behind me were doing; the thought of calling attention to myself that way was just too much. I completely forgot about the other team on the court, watching my own team—and the man I loved on the team—as they went through their drills, passing and darting around, making shots. It was not quite as exciting as the game itself would be, but it was fun to watch them, to notice the little refinements to their techniques from the practice I had watched before.

  The two teams went back to the sidelines, and the packed arena went quiet as the announcer came back on, informing everyone that the national anthem was about to start. I took advantage of the lull to catch my breath; my heart was hammering in my chest, but at least I could slow down my breathing, get myself a little calmed down. Northwestern had a reputation for having a tough team—I had looked them up long before, interested in their players as competition for Devon and the team as a whole. The game was going to be exciting and probably long; I needed to conserve my energy.

  I stayed standing during the national anthem, hand over my heart, even though my eyes sought out the sight of Devon on the sidelines, barely fidgeting. I smiled to myself, thinking that of course he was trying to be respectful—but he wanted more than anything to get the game started, to be on the court, showing off the way he always did, scoring points, running back and forth on the boards. He wanted to be out there like five minutes ago; anything that made him wait was going to be difficult for him to deal with, even if he wanted to be polite and proper.

  The national anthem ended, and the two teams’ opening lineup took the floor for the tip-off. I stood as close to the edge as I could, along with everyone else in the court-side seats. I found myself holding my breath as the ref came out, ball in hands, the crowd absolutely silent as we waited for that one instant. I pressed my lips together as the ball went up.

  Northwestern got possession of the ball; the opposing team’s side of the arena erupted in cheers, and I watched as our side scrambled into defensive positions. Devon moved across the court like lightning, dodging and darting until he grabbed the ball out of one of the players’ hands in the midst of a pass. Then the play flowed to the other end of the court, and Devon glanced at me quickly, giving me another one of his little grins. I found myself smiling back even as I watched him dodge the grab from a member of the other team, feinting away and moving into position.

  Devon scored the first basket of the game—a two-point throw that sank beautifully through the net, making everyone on my side of the arena cheer. A Northwestern player intercepted the ball but only got halfway across the court before Miles managed a steal, passing it to Devon who passed it back to him at the three-point line. It was already obvious that the game was going to be a high-scorer—at least to me, and to the announcer, who was barely keeping up with the two teams’ movements.

  I watched as the first quarter of the game heated up, jumping up and down and cheering as the two teams moved from one end of the court
to the other—stealing, rushing to get to the other net, losing the ball, regaining it. Devon was at the peak of his performance, getting shots and assists left and right, stealing the ball whenever there was an opening. I cheered, still not daring to call out his name, but just as excited as the rowdiest fan-girl in the stands watching him. By the time the first quarter ended, the score was 15-12 in our favor, and Devon dashed to the sidelines to rehydrate. I bit my lip, watching him; he was already drenched in sweat, glowing with it, looking as close as he could to the way he had in bed with me the night before—it was as if, for a moment, the crowd around me and the game going on had disappeared. I felt my body heating up, and flashes of memory flitted through my mind at the sight of Devon. He looked up into the crowd and found me in an instant, and held my gaze for a long moment, his lips curling upward in a knowing little smile.

  Devon sat out the first half of the second quarter, catching his breath, throwing me little, flirting glances as the game went on out on the court. Then the coach changed up, and Devon took the floor again, running out and flashing me a little grin as he went into position. It seemed like every time he stole the ball, or scored a basket, or managed to evade the other team’s defense, he managed to find me in my seat and grin at me—as if to tell me that I was the reason he was playing so well. I kept my cheering up all through the second quarter of the game, getting drenched in sweat as I jumped up and down in front of my seat, not sitting down for even a minute. We scored fifteen more points to Northwestern’s eight, giving us a fairly solid lead heading into halftime.

  I slipped away from my seat when Devon and the team left the court to head into the lockers, knowing there was no real point in sticking around for the halftime show. I had seen it so many times before, and if Devon wasn’t there playing—and my throat was already hoarse from cheering and screaming—I might as well take advantage of the break to get something to drink. I bought a soda and a water, deciding on some cheap nachos at the last minute before I hurried back to my place, cramming the food into my mouth so that I would be ready to cheer once more when the teams came out again.

  The second half of the game started, and I was on my feet once more, cheering my head off, jumping up and down. Devon was just as on fire as he had been before, moving fast on his feet, ducking and dodging, passing and taking passes. Within the first minutes of the second half, he and Miles had extended our lead on Northwestern by nine points—making it even harder for the other team to try and even contemplate winning the game. Even better, Devon kept looking for me in the stands, grinning at me, showing off seemingly for me alone—though I knew objectively that he would have shown off even if we weren’t dating, even if we’d never even met before, it still warmed my heart that he seemed to be looking to see how impressed I was.

  The crowd was absolutely wild as Northwestern managed to score another three baskets in the third quarter, bringing the score closer to even—but not quite close enough. The fourth quarter began, and our team shifted into defense; the coach knew as well as anyone watching that as long as we kept our lead, we would win. Devon still managed two solid, beautiful shots—increasing the lead—but for the most part they were playing a defensive game, stealing the ball back, running out the clock. Devon’s moves became even flashier, misdirecting the other team’s players, darting back and forth, weaving his way across the court.

  The game came to an end with our team as the winners, and the entire section lit up—cheering, screaming, jumping up and down until the whole seating area seemed to shake and tremble. The team celebrated out on the court, jumping up and down, high-fiving each other and chest bumping. I laughed at the sight of Devon and his teammates running around, cheering, and accepting their accolades from the crowd. I managed to sit down finally, out of breath and hoarse, exhilarated from the game. I needed to use the bathroom and get to the lockers. More than I had all night, I absolutely wanted to be with Devon as soon as humanly possible.

  Chapter Nine

  I went to the bathroom quickly, threw away my trash, and decided to head for the lockers as quickly as possible. Most of the crowd was starting to come out of the stands, heading for the exits rather than the locker rooms; it was like trying to swim upriver, getting through them and moving against their herd-like steps to get to where I wanted to be. I was already tired, almost exhausted from my cheering; but I knew that I needed to see Devon—I needed to hug him, kiss him, and as soon as possible, I needed to be alone with him in his room.

  When I arrived at the locker room area, I saw that there were more than a few girls who had made their way there, along with some of the local newspapers. Our team was keeping up quite the winning streak—and Devon was the reason why. I stood off to the side, away from the basketball bunnies, fidgeting as the sweat cooled and dried on my skin. At least you’re not wandering around aimlessly looking for him this time, I thought. No chance you’ll miss him. No one’s come out yet, and if Devon had, he’d have found you first. I pictured him in my mind, showering as quickly as he could in the locker room, in just as much of a hurry to get to me as I was to see him.

  The crowd gradually thinned, and while I didn’t know for sure how much time was passing as I waited, it seemed like a long time indeed; the people heading for the parking lot, heading for parties on campus or just their dorms, were trickling out. Some of the fan-girls even started to wander away as the minutes dragged on, and I started to feel anxious. There was no way that I could have missed Devon; I hadn’t taken that long to use the bathroom—and he would have definitely stopped to shower. I wondered if someone might have been injured, I wondered if that someone might have been Devon. He had been showing off—but he hadn’t shown any signs of being hurt throughout the game. He hadn’t taken any falls; he hadn’t been in any fights. I caught up my bottom lip between my teeth and worried at it, looking around for some sign as to what was going on.

  Some of the other players started to come out of the lockers, and my worries seemed to both dissolve and deepen at the same time. I smiled at the players who I’d met at the frat as they came through; the journalists hanging out around the entry to the lockers were asking questions I didn’t quite understand—but none of the players were commenting, except to say that they’d had a great game, and they were going to wait and see about the tournament. I fidgeted, looking around constantly, wishing I had some idea—any idea—of where Devon was inside of the lockers, and what he was doing. Surely it wasn’t taking him this long to shower and change. I couldn’t help feeling like something had to have gone wrong, and I thought back to the last time I’d waited for Devon, when I’d ended up seeing him wrapped in Kelly’s arms, though I hadn’t known it was Kelly.

  The basketball groupies started to filter away, some of them wandering towards the exits with the players who came out. I tried not to feel the panic that was rising up inside of me, the worry that was growing deeper and deeper as I waited longer and longer for Devon to appear. I swallowed against the lump in my throat, counting the number of players who came out, trying to do the mental math to figure out who was missing. Evans talked to me for a few minutes, stopping short. “Hey, Jenn, how’s it going?” he asked, giving me a polite little smile.

  “Pretty good,” I said. I remembered that Evans had been one of the guys playing video games in the living room when I’d visited the Phi Kappa house before. “Is—is Devon okay?” I glanced around, lowering my voice so that none of the few journalists and fan-girls hanging around would hear me. Evans glanced sideways, making a face before he met my gaze once more.

  “Yeah, he’s okay. Should be out soon.” The expression on his face—that little flicker of uncertainty—made me think that I wouldn’t like what would happen when Devon came out. Oh god. Oh god. He’s with some girl in there, just like Kelly said—just like everyone said.

  “Heading back to the frat?” I asked, keeping my voice as light as possible. Evans nodded.

  “Yeah—yeah, I’ll probably see you there.” He patted my shou
lder and sauntered away after giving me another friendly smile.

  After a few more minutes, the coach came out looking at the journalists. “I’m going to need you all to head out,” the coach said, keeping his voice carefully level. “No one has anything to say about the game you haven’t heard already.”

  “Can we get a comment from Devon Sealy?” someone asked.

  “No ma’am,” the coach told the reporter. “I’d appreciate it if you guys would hit the road. I’ll be sending out a press release about the game tomorrow morning.” I frowned to myself; there was more and more about the situation that I didn’t like, although I didn’t know enough about what was going on to know what it was. Of course the reporters wanted to talk to Devon; he had been the star of the game. Why would the coach get between Devon and the reporters, then?

  The coach brushed past without even seeing me, and the last few players came out as well, pairing off with the girls who had stayed behind. The reporters started to decamp, and I felt pathetic, standing there waiting, wondering if Devon was even in the locker room. If there was something wrong—had someone smuggled Devon out of the locker rooms before the press had arrived, before I had gotten there? I took a deep breath. If he didn’t come out in a few minutes, I would text him and see what was going on.

  There couldn’t possibly be anyone else in the locker room, I thought, counting in my mind. All of the other players had come out, the coaches, the support staff; before I knew it, I would be all alone in the arena except for the cleanup crew. They’d throw me out. I was starting to think that I would have to text Devon—starting to think that I should check on him in the locker room. I took a deep breath, slipping my hand into my purse to take out my phone. There was no message from Devon; I would have to text him.