Page 6

But, Holy Hosanna, Ryder Yates was gorgeous. A gorgeous boy had acted interested in me for the first time in my life. It was the strangest sensation, knowing such a complete hottie was checking me out. Of all the people in the crowded six hundred fifty-capacity gymnasium, I was the one to hit his radar. I had no idea how to deal with the attention. So, I pretty much functioned in freak mode—as in, I was so freaked out I needed a change of subject before I drove myself insane from excitement.

Bridget lifted her camera again, zoomed in, and clicked off a picture of him.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, utterly panicked. I swung out my arm and whacked her precious mechanical piece of equipment out of her grasp, making her lose her hold and drop the camera, until the strap around her neck caught it and made it thump against her stomach. Yeah, wouldn’t Mr. Forty-two be so proud she actually knew how to use her strap. “Don’t take a picture of him!”

With an aggravated twist of her nose and mouth, Bridget lifted her camera and inspected it for damage. She blew off a speck of lint and patted it reverently.

“Why not? Adam and Schy aren’t going to believe this unless I have proof. Visual, pictorial proof.”

I opened my mouth to tell her the other two members of our nerd herd didn’t need to learn about this. Ever. But the buzzer sounded again, letting everyone know it was time to start the game.

Bridge popped to her feet. “Ooh! Hold that thought. I want to take pictures of the cheerleaders’ gymnastics when they call out the starters.”

As she hurried off, I remained behind, too afraid to move. The announcer boomed the name of the first Hillsburg starter, and everyone around me clapped, roaring with approval. Two cheerleaders did back flips across the floor. I picked up the roster and examined Ryder Yates’s stats.

Number forty-two, Ryder Yates, senior, six feet even.

That was all it said. Staring at that single line, I gnawed on my bottom lip, wishing they could be a bit more descriptive with their player information, something more along the lines of, “Honor roll student, class president, and history club member. Likes spending time with his family and friends and taking long walks down deserted country roads. Lover of small furry, animals and cute babies. And in desperate need of a good, faithful girlfriend.”

But no, all I got was his age, height, and name. Bummer.

Bridget nudged my elbow. “Game’s starting. Were you going to take any pictures tonight?”

I jumped, not realizing she’d already returned from her photo-taking jaunt. Surprised to find all ten starters on the court and in position to begin, I blinked, then immediately searched for number forty-two. When I didn’t find him on the floor, I frowned and looked again before scanning the entire gymnasium. When I finally spotted him on the bench two spaces down from his coach, my mouth fell open.

“He’s not starting? Why isn’t he starting?”

Bridge shrugged. She didn’t have to ask who he was. “Maybe he sucks at basketball.”

I shook my head in instant denial because no way did that seem possible. He looked, and smiled, and laughed too perfectly to be anything other than a perfect athlete as well. But as a referee tossed the ball in the air and the game began, Ryder Yates remained on the bench. One of his teammates jumped up and swatted the ball to another teammate. Southeast passed down court, and two tosses later, they made a basket. All within the first four seconds of the game.

Bridget groaned. “We’re going to get massacred.”

“He’s not starting,” was all I could utter.

“Well, if he’s that sucky of a player, then I really wish he would start. How am I supposed to get any good pictures if we’re going to get beaten to a bloody pulp?”

I blinked at my friend. “He doesn’t suck.” I’m not sure why I sounded so defensive. As far as I knew, Ryder Yates was the worst player to join a basketball team.

Bridget glanced at me, her eyebrows crinkling to let me know how insane she found my statement. “If he doesn’t suck, then why’d you tell him you weren’t interested?”

I sputtered, unable to believe she didn’t already understand my position. Finally, I was able to form actual words. “Well…well…what would you say if Zac Efron walked up to you right now and asked you out?” I knew her fascination with the movie star, so I used him as an example.

Bridget snorted. “I’d ask him to hold on a second before I dropped to my knees and thanked the Lord for answering my prayers.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Never mind.”

She didn’t get it. But, honestly, what were the chances of Zac Efron leaving Hollywood, or wherever he was from, and appearing in our school? I hadn’t asked her a realistic hypothetical question. What had happened to me with Ryder Yates was real—way too real—so in my opinion, I was justifiably freaked out to the point of telling him I wasn’t interested and then running off. My reaction mortified me, true, but I still felt warranted in what I’d done.

Next to me, Bridget titled her head as she studied Ryder Yates hard. “He does look a little like my Zac, doesn’t he?”

I surged to my feet with the need to widen some space between my best friend and me. “I’m going to take some pictures.”

“Grace,” Bridget called after me. Her voice was apologetic, making me think maybe she comprehended my panic after all. But my adrenal glands remained cranked all the way to flight so I was forced to flee on.

I waved over my shoulder and kept a steady pace past Hillsburg’s cheerleaders and screaming fans to the opposite side of the gym of where I’d stationed myself earlier. Feeling like this would be a fresh start at taking a few photos, I hauled in a deep breath. After hooking my neck strap over my head, I lifted the camera, only to focus on number forty-two just as a referee waved him into the game.

I gasped and jerked the camera down. He was going to play. I was going to get to see him play.