The randoms were bouncing in my head, though I’d put a block on them. Every time I felt one coming, I bit down on my lip. I’m pretty sure I was bleeding, but what else could a slightly stalkerish-girl do to keep sane?

Apparently, bleed.

And ignore the one player I’d probably pee myself if I saw. I couldn’t handle knowing whether he was here, so he was locked in that special place in my mind.

They had all eaten, and Keith and Trent were at the front giving everyone the run-down on the campgrounds and rules. I knew this routine. When they stepped away, the coaches would step up and continue with whatever needed to be said.

After that, I didn’t know.

But until they took off, my inner basketball fan was melting down inside.

Terry Bartlonguesen.

I made a weird-sounding gurgle. It started as a sigh, but I caught myself and barked out an alien something again. I wasn’t sure what it was.

I couldn’t breathe. My heart nearly stopped working as he leaned over and whispered something to Matthew Crusky.

Matthew Crusky, everyone! The Cruskinator. The Cruskimachine.

Double-down on the weird alien sigh.

I sagged again, but grabbed for the sink and caught myself.

Right.

Look away. Brain walls. Brain walls. They needed to be erect.

Firm.

Standing upright and ready.

I felt my knees going.

I couldn’t stop myself.

I went back to my stalker/gawking mode.

Beau Michems.

The crowd surges to their feet and gives a standing ovation. Ahhhh. Ahhhhh.

And he was sitting next to Juan Cartion.

Juan Cartion. Juan the Speedster Cartion! His other nickname was the Chia Pet because his hair would frizz up during every game. The announcers loved teasing him about it. He wasn’t the Chia Pet here, though. His hair had been slicked down and combed to the side. He was the shooting guard, and—I was about to embark into Pure Insanity Mode, so I had to guard myself, ram up the shields—he was Reese Forster’s best friend.

My mouth dried up, just thinking of him, thinking his best friend was in the room. His best friend was twenty feet from me.

Me. From me!

“Settle down, Cherry Popper.”

“Cherry Popper?” I turned around and raised an eyebrow. “Are you using reverse psychology on me? Hoping I’ll want to pop your cherry.”

Trent laughed. “I was hoping for projection. I’m projecting my fantasies onto you.”

I snorted. “Hate to break it to you, but my cherry was popped long agooo…oo…oh shit.”

Keith stood on the other side of the dish window, a scowl on his face.

The dirty bastard was going to take it and run. I knew how he worked.

But he just grunted, waving that B-oss mug in the air. “Trent, we’re going to start.”