glance and replacing it with searing hot sin. I’m overcome with guilt because one body width to his right stands the boy I’m dating, his brother. But my eyes are locked here, and I’m sure Hayden can tell. Tory doesn’t blink, not once through the nearly two minutes it takes for the Star Spangled Banner to play. His body vibrates with his home-brewed energy and his chin tips more than once in what I imagine is a silent acknowledgement that he sees me staring at him and intends to remember that I did. I wonder whether it’s evidence to hold against me down the road or for his own personal ego gain. None of the nonsense in my head can force me to turn away, though.
Tory’s lips part just as the song winds down and a slight curve forms in his mouth, dimpling his cheeks. Rather than run scared, I make the same face at him, because really . . . he’s looking at me, too. This forbidden flirting game is a two-way street that we are both driving on dangerously.
I could almost convince myself that I’m imagining this were it not for the slight titter as he clearly nods at me before turning his back and huddling with his team. Once cut loose from his stare, I’m suddenly aware that Lola and Naomi probably noticed my little game of chicken. I have milliseconds to clean it up before it becomes a big deal.
“He is such a punk,” I say with a shake of my head, confident my girls will instantly agree.
“He has always wanted to get with you. He’s probably just jealous.” Lola spills first, standing to adjust her jeans along her hips. She steps down one row to turn and face me and Naomi, her hands on her hips.
“He just likes the game. It’s so annoying. Hayden is nothing like him,” I add, meaning every word. Tory has always loved the game. I don’t think I’ve been to a single party over four years of high school madness where he hasn’t tried to get me to make out with him. A person doesn’t keep coming back for the rejection if they don’t like to play. And his lame pick-up attempts over the years have been so annoying. Hayden was so adult about it all—so easy. We were hanging out on the bleachers at school having one of our long talks when he reached out and took my hand in his, looked me in the eyes and said, “I really like you.” How simple is that? I said it back, we kissed, and when he called me his girlfriend to the lady at the diner the next day, all of the noise in my heart and head just stopped. One two-minute stare down with Tory, though, and a hive of bees are swarming in my chest.
This guy named Danny, who has always been the tallest kid in school, matches up against the big guy for Vanguard (that’s the name of the private school, I guess. Or it’s their mascot. I can’t tell for sure, but it’s the only thing people from their school are yelling.) Danny wins the tip-off easily, pushing the ball in the air straight into Tory’s hands. This is where everything aggressive in his fabric takes over and drives. Watching him work with his brother out there on the court is like watching a pair of ice dancers. They have this unspoken choreography that plays out on the floor, from one quick pass to another until Tory launches the ball in the air for Hayden to grab and hammer home. People are on their feet as the twins manage to score six straight points in less than a minute, and I find myself shouting Tory’s name as he makes a steal and races down the court. Everyone expects an encore of the last shot, where he fed his brother under the hoop and Hayden laid it in with a gentle finger roll, but that’s just what Tory wants. Everyone barrels down the court, but he stops short, giving him just the edge he needs to set up and catapult the ball in the air with the smoothest body movement I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure whether everyone has gone silent or I’ve temporarily lost the ability to hear, but the only sound that accompanies my view of Tory’s ball soaring in a perfect arc is my hitched breath, which I hold midway for good luck. The