Chapter 14
Rue
The game schedule for the Fallbrook Falcons is something that’s never been on my radar before. Rehearsals? Yes. Auditions? Of course. But never basketball games.
Ezra has only mentioned it once, but as his girlfriend, I know I’m expected to be there. And with Mabel dating Tucker, the next game is all she’s been able to talk about. When Friday approaches, I’m just relieved it will be over after tonight so I can stop hearing and thinking about it.
“I’m so glad we’re both dating basketball players,” Mabel says as we navigate the corridors between classes.
My shoes clop against the historical hardwood floors as we weave through the rush of students, trying to make it to my locker, and then class, before the bell.
“Now we can sit together at the game tonight. Meredith can’t come, and Dot’s busy too. There’s no way I’d want to go alone.”
“There’s always Carlton,” I mutter. “He’s our friend, too.”
She averts her gaze. “Yeah…true. But you’re way more fun.”
“Thanks.” We finally reach my locker, and I just barely get it open when I hear Ezra’s voice, deep and warm from behind me.
“Hey, Sullivan.”
My stomach does a flutter dance like a total traitor. “Hey.”
He leans a shoulder against the locker next to mine, the metal straining slightly beneath his weight. “Are you still coming to my game tonight?” He looks at Mabel for a second, and she pretends to be studying her nails.
“Yeah, of course I’ll be there.” The part I leave out? Because if I didn’t show up, it would look weird for us.
“Right. Sweet.” His grin softens into something almost shy. “Then you should wear this.”
He holds out his basketball jersey—navy blue with his number, 12, stitched in gold across the chest. The faint smell of detergent and cologne clings to it.
Oh…I’m definitely going to be sniffing this in the comfort of my room after tonight.
“Are you kidding me?” Mabel whispers, pressing a hand to her heart like she’s watching a proposal unfold. “Rue, do you know what this means?”
I blink at her, then at the jersey. “Uh, ‘Go Falcons’?”
She gasps. “No. This is the basketball equivalent of a love declaration.” She turns to Ezra. “Tucker never gave me his jersey to wear until our third date.”
Ezra chuckles and crosses his arms. His smile glitters as bright as his stud earrings. “Guess I just work faster.”
Mabel elbows me, grinning so wide it could split her face. “You have to wear it. If you don’t, the entire team will think you broke up.”
Oh, perfect. No pressure. Not to mention the idea of wearing it provides me with a flurry of feelings.
“She’s right,” says Ezra. “Girlfriends do that sort of thing.” On his face is a grin with so much game, I have to force myself not to swoon.
But the annoying part isn’t even how cute he is; it’s his sweetness combined with his confidence.
He interacts with people like he knows they will listen to him, and he always moves through the hallway like he belongs there.
“You realize everyone will notice if I show up wearing this, right?”
He smirks. “That’s kind of the point.”
As soon as he walks away, Mabel squeals beside me. Her gold hoop earrings flash in the hallway light as she bounces on her toes. “I can’t wait to take pictures of us at the game. This is iconic.”
The bell rings, and the hallway empties in a rush of footsteps. As Ezra walks off, I catch myself staring at the back of his head, nerves swarming my entire body.
I shake myself.
Get a grip, Rue. This is pretend.
Mabel and I split ways for class, but instead of going straight to English, I duck into the theater room, where it’s quiet and dim.
Dust motes float lazily through a shaft of sunlight coming from the high windows, and the faint smell of sawdust and paint clings to the air from the new set pieces the design crew has been building.
I pull out my phone and open the Little Birdie admin console—something I shouldn’t do at school but can’t help checking right now. Usually the inbox is full of harmless gossip, like cafeteria mishaps, bad haircuts, and the occasional anonymous “spotting.”
Today, one submission sits at the top of the queue, flagged urgent.
Mabel Evans: breaking news: Ezra Davis gave Rue Sullivan his jersey for tonight’s game…confirmed sighting near lockers
My jaw drops. “Mabel,” I whisper to the empty room. “You little traitor.” Now if I don’t post it, everyone will assume Little Birdie’s slipping. But if I do, everyone is going to know.
Which, I guess, is exactly what should happen.
I hover over the “publish” button, heart pounding. Above Mabel’s tip is a spot to add my own comment, so I type:
Dearest fledglings,
A juicy worm crawled right into my nest today in the shape of a basketball jersey! Ezra Davis’s jersey, to be precise. And the darling point guard happened to pass it along to Rue Sullivan in the hopes that she’d don it at his game tonight. Is there anything more romantic? I myself highly doubt it.
Yours truly,
Little Birdie
I hit post before I can chicken out. And within minutes, my phone vibrates nonstop with incoming text messages.
First from Meredith. Then Dot. Then Carlton. Then… Mabel. The worst part? Mabel renames our group chat Flock Talk. As if the only thing we talk about is Little Birdie.
Meredith:
RUE. TELL ME THIS IS REAL.
Dot
it’s all over LB
Carlton
and why is this a big deal? do tell.
I’m still deciding whether to confirm it or not when Mabel responds first.
Mabel
it’s true. saw it happen myself
I stare at her message, mouth falling open.
Me
Mabel!
Mabel
what?? you were gonna tell them eventually!
Meredith
okay so this is huge. you two are officially official
Dot
definitely
Carlton
are you all for real?
The texts keep rolling in, one after another. My phone pulses against my palm like it’s laughing at me. I want to crawl under the nearest cover and never come out. Because even when I’m the reason it happened, I hate being the center of attention for anything other than acting.
Shoving my phone into my book bag, I push open the theater doors and head toward my next class, trying to ignore the way people glance at me as I pass. Two girls from choir glance my way and whisper something behind their hands.
“That’s Rue,” one of them says. “The quiet one.”
The quiet one.
Story of my life. Plenty of others are whispering too, and some are grinning. Either way, despite my efforts, it’s nothing new.
The gym smells like sweat, rubber soles, and fresh paint. It’s a combination that brings me right back to middle school dances for some reason. Maybe middle school is only on my mind because that was the last time I had positive emotions about Ezra.
Until now. I even kinda hope he wins today, which is a huge step, compared to how I used to feel about him.
Mabel loops her arm through mine, bouncing a little with each step as we climb the bleachers to find seats. “You look so good in his jersey,” she gushes. “Like, I want to take a picture of you and make it my phone wallpaper.”
I tug self-consciously at the hem. The navy fabric hangs just past my hips. “I look like I borrowed my brother’s laundry.”
“You don’t have a brother. And if you did, he wouldn’t make your cheeks pink,” she teases.
The band strikes up the school fight song, trumpets blaring while the crowd claps in rhythm. The metal bleachers shake beneath my shoes from everyone’s excited stomping.
When the Fallbrook Falcons burst through the banner at the far end of the court, the cheers are deafening. Ezra is easy to spot thanks to his curly hair, his broad shoulders, and the number 12 on his back.
Mabel squeezes my arm. “I think he’s looking for you. Look, Rue, he’s totally scanning the stands.”
My pulse skips when his gaze sweeps over the crowd and lands directly on me. For half a heartbeat, the noise of the gym fades. It’s just his eyes locking with mine. Then he grins, sending a strange, fizzy warmth straight through my chest.
The game starts, and even though I don’t really know what’s going on, the scoreboard confirms the Falcons are winning, along with the cheering on Fallbrook’s side of the gym.
Ezra seems to be everywhere at once, passing, shooting, shouting at his teammates.
Everyone on the court listens when he speaks, and he seems good.
Like, really good. Every time he scores, the bleachers shake with cheers.
Somewhere during the second quarter, I’m clapping before I even realize it, my voice blending with the crowd’s as I yell his name. My tummy is light and jittery, like soda bubbles under my ribs.
When halftime hits, the cheerleaders take the court. Mabel leans close, sipping a soda she brought through a pink straw. “He keeps glancing this way, you know. He’s totally showing off for you.”
I have noticed him looking my way throughout the game, and I want to believe that it’s real and not just for show. But overanalyzing our interactions as a fake couple will only confuse me.
By the final quarter, the Falcons are up by eight points. The clock ticks down, the crowd’s on its feet, and Ezra sinks the final shot just as the buzzer blares.
The sound of cheers and whistles explodes around me, and I can’t stop smiling, even though I don’t care about basketball.
I don’t even like it. But I have to admit…
that game was exhilarating. Exciting. Who knew it could be so much fun?
It’s the first time I’ve understood why Ezra loves playing sports so much.
The team piles together, shouting, jumping, and hugging. When the gym finally starts to empty, I linger at the top of the bleachers, waiting for Mabel to text Tucker. Then Ezra spots me from the edge of the court and waves me down.
“I’ll meet you outside,” Mabel says, smiling. “Go.”
When I reach Ezra, a rush of pride swarms me. “You won, and you were amazing,” I say. And without thinking, I throw my arms around him in a full body, tight hug. The kind that’s pure and real and warm.
He freezes when my cheek presses into his shoulder. Snapping out of his stupor, he winds his arms around me.
It feels so good to hug him.
When I pull away, he grins as he takes in the sight of me in his jersey. “You wore it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Apparently I would have been a bad girlfriend if I didn’t.”
He laughs, brushing sweat-soaked curls off his forehead. “You? Never. But I was right.”
“About what?”
“I told you it would look good on you.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart is dribbling across my chest like his basketball. “Thanks.”
His voice comes out quiet as he peers down at me. “So, I’ll see you Sunday night?”
“You will?”
“Yeah, for family dinner at my house.”
I nod. “Oh, yeah. Yes. I will be there.”
Ezra smiles softly, and when he looks at me, really looks, I have to remind myself to get a grip.
This is still pretend, Rue. It always has been.
So why does it feel anything but?