Betty
“We’re going to the basketball game tonight,” my dad said, casual as you please, like we were headed to the grocery store.
I didn’t look up from my physics worksheet. “What basketball game?”
He stepped into my doorway, coffee in hand, already dressed in one of his tailored sports blazers—the kind that made him look like a scout even when he was just making pancakes. “Your school. Riverside Prep. The varsity boys are playing. The game starts at seven.”
I froze, pencil mid-equation. My stomach turned over.
“I’m not going,” I said flatly.
He frowned. “Why not?”
Because he’d be there.
I didn’t say Marcus’s name out loud. I didn’t have to. It throbbed in my chest like a bruise. He’d kissed me. And not just some dumb prank-kiss. It had felt real. Soft. Intense. Like he actually saw me. And I… I let him. I wanted it.
That was the problem.
Now I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror, let alone sit in the same gym while he played superhero in a jersey.
“I just don’t want to,” I said, eyes fixed on my paper.
Dad’s voice sharpened. “Betty.”
“I’m not going.”
He let out a slow breath. “You don’t have a choice. We’re going as a family. And you’re coming. No discussion.”
I groaned, flopped back in my chair, and slammed my laptop shut like it personally betrayed me.
“Fine.”
Upstairs, I grabbed my gray sweater—the one that used to be my favorite before Riverside Prep made me feel like a walking thrift sale. It hung off me in that way I used to call “comfy,” but now just screamed hiding. I found a pair of jeans that weren’t actively humiliating—no muffin top, no waistband digging in, no stretch marks flashing if I sat the wrong way.
I brushed my hair into something vaguely intentional, smeared on some lip balm, then froze in front of the mirror.
Big glasses. Puffy eyes. And a body that never got the memo on what a “college girl” was supposed to look like. My thighs pressed together. My arms felt thick even just hanging there.
And my mouth—my stupid, traitor mouth—still remembered how Marcus tasted.
A few hours later, I slouched down the stairs. Everyone was already assembled in the living room like a picture-perfect ad for “Functional Blended Family: Lies Edition.” My dad. His new wife. And Stacey—front and center in a cropped jersey with Marcus’s number stretched tight across her chest, paired with a skirt that should’ve come with a warning label.
Her dad raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you’re wearing to a basketball game?”
Stacey flipped her hair. “Mind your business, Dad.”
Of course.
We loaded into the car. Stacey and I didn’t speak. She was glued to her phone. I was glued to the window. Every streetlight passed like a countdown to disaster.
She still had the photos.
I still had the kiss.
And both of them scared me for completely different reasons.
When we reached the gym, the sound hit first—cheering, sneakers on hardwood, the chaotic squeal of a whistle. The whole place buzzed like it ran on teenage adrenaline and spilled Gatorade.
My dad marched in like he owned the building. He did this thing where he smiled just enough to look approachable but kept his eyes cold—scanning, measuring. Classic NBA Pipeline Director mode. He was here to spot future draft picks, not cheer for his awkward daughter.
We squeezed into the bleachers. I ended up between Dad and some guy in a foam finger who kept jabbing me in the ribs.
Then the team ran out.
And Marcus was there.
The crowd erupted, his name echoing off the gym walls. He moved like he belonged under a spotlight—graceful, powerful, completely composed.
Until he saw me.
His gaze cut through everything—crowd, banners, noise—and locked on mine like a heat-seeking missile.
My breath hitched. I couldn’t look away.
“Go, Marcus!” Stacey screeched beside me, her voice like glittery poison.
He didn’t look at her. Not even a flicker.
His eyes stayed on me.
Burning. Focused. Like he was asking me something silently.
Like he was still kissing me.
I turned away.
I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t sit here and pretend my heart wasn’t trying to punch its way out of my chest.
At halftime, I bolted.
“Bathroom,” I mumbled.
My dad nodded without looking up. Stacey was too busy with her phone to care.
I fled down the hallway, barely registering the noise behind me. The restroom door creaked as I pushed it open, and I stepped inside, heart pounding.
Finally. Silence. Space.
I turned toward the mirror—
THUMP.
I was slammed against the wall.
“Aahhh, what the hell!” I shrieked, swinging my elbow on instinct.
It connected. Hard.
There was a groan, a body crumpling to the floor.
I looked down—and saw the face.
Marcus.
My heart kicked into my throat. His face twisted in pain, one hand clutching his stomach, the other pressed flat to the floor like he needed to steady the earth.
I backed up fast, nearly slipping on the tile, breathing hard.
“Are you insane?” I snapped. “You followed me into the bathroom?”
He didn’t answer. Just wheezed.
I didn’t wait. I turned and rushed out the door before he could speak, before I could see if he looked sorry or smug or something worse.
I needed space. Air.
I needed him out of my head.