10 Years Ago
10 YEARS AGO
I shift in my seat, thighs sticking to the metal bleachers. My fingers itch to play with the longest strands of my hair, a tell that my anxiety has gotten the better of me. I tuck my palms beneath my butt, resisting the urge.
Truthfully, I don’t know why I’m here. Alone. At someone else’s high school, thirty minutes early to another team’s basketball game.
Scratch that—I know why I’m here. Who I’m here for. I just can’t figure out why I’ve made the effort.
But I haven’t been able to get those hazel eyes out of my head. Not for two whole weeks…not since they held my gaze as a stranger extended the first act of kindness I had received all day. I don’t know the first name of the boy who helped me collect my newspapers. But I do have a jersey. Red and gold, with the number 33 emblazoned across the back.
Hedlund.
He’s why I’m here. Why I braved the crowds, the traffic, and my own doubts. I’m afraid seeing him play tonight will make all the trouble worth it. That he’ll become a permanent fixture in my brain chemistry. That I won’t be able to see red roses, or a golden sunset without thinking of him. Hell, I already can’t. I’m not sure whether I want to find out how far this infatuation will go.
A couple kids come running into the gymnasium, whistling as they hold up blue and white jerseys. My eyes widen and I lean forward to get a closer look. A boy I recognize from two grades ahead of mine is leading the pack. Mousy brown hair falls over his forehead as braces-clad teeth are bared in a sneer.
He’s the captain of my school’s basketball team, I think. Someone shouts the name “Rob,” and when he turns, his letterman jacket proclaims the status over his jersey number.
He corrals his squad, pushing his way into the first row of bleachers. If he’s aiming for intimidation, I’m not sure he’s succeeding. Barely anyone has looked his group’s way. Something tells me our high school’s reputation is one of the reasons why.
In the two years I’ve attended Valley Glen High, we have won a total of two basketball games. A statistic I learned just this week, after a classmate loudly revealed our rival, Arroyo, has lost a total of two. In five years. They might be our biggest rival, but I somehow doubt we’re theirs.
An outpouring of cheers pulls my gaze away from my classmates. Applause thunders around me as the doors of the gym are flung open. Ten students come jogging in, red and gold jerseys flashing under the fluorescent lights.
Without even meaning to, I take to my feet, eyes scanning the crowd until I locate the only player that matters.
He’s even better looking than I remembered. The kind of handsome you only read about in fairytales. I’m riveted, mouth hanging ajar as I watch him gather his teammates into a huddle. I might be shouting, my voice lost among all the others filling the room. The girls in front of me have started a chant, calling out the names of every player on the team. The corners of my lips pull up when I notice that they scream Hedlund an octave higher than the rest.
And then my heart skips a beat. Hazel eyes lift over the shoulders of his teammates as he surveys the crowd. I stand straighter, hoping he’ll meet my gaze. But too soon, he’s turning his attention to the court. A team decked in green and black jerseys sits opposite Arroyo.
I try to keep track of the referee’s whistle—what numbers are lighting up the scoreboard. But my eyes keep drifting to one face. I’m breathless when he flashes a smile, tongue-tied every time his brows furrow in a scowl. Even dripping with sweat and out of breath, I find him captivating.
I’m on the edge of my seat as he rushes across the court, moving through the players like they’re extras in a dance he’s choreographed. A cheer sweeps through the stands as a buzzer rings out. The numbers that flash overhead are in the double digits—Arroyo’s opponents have failed to score even a single field goal.
The girls in the seats below me stand, waving their arms to catch Hedlund’s attention. If he gives it, I’m too distracted by the pink bags they’re holding to notice. Every single one of them is carrying a present wrapped in pastel paper. I watch as they surge onto the court, not even waiting for the other team to slink off in defeat.
They crowd around Hedlund, offering him their bags with words too muffled to place. He tries shaking his head, waving his arms like he’s saying, “No, I couldn’t possibly accept.” But, eventually, he does. And then he smiles at each of his classmates, offering her some kind of thanks that undoubtedly leaves her beaming from ear to ear.
I know I would be. If he looked at me like that, I probably wouldn’t be able to wipe the smile off my face for an entire week. If I handed him a present I wonder if he would remember me. If he’d finally tell me his first name, maybe even ask for mine.
I tell myself to march down there, catch him by the wrist, and utter one of the phrases I’ve spent all day mentally preparing.
Hi, you were totally great out there!
Hey there, Hedlund. I’m Ayla. Nice to officially meet you.
You were awesome. I’m not sure I caught your name last time…
By the time I’m ready to storm the court, Hedlund is halfway out the door, his teammates hiding him from view. The girls with the presents are now in a huddle, giggling as they exchange excited whispers.
I watch Hedlund’s retreat, praying he’ll look over his shoulder. Like magic, he does. It’s just for a moment, and his eyes barely pass over me, but it feels like a sign.
I found the courage to come here tonight. To step out of my comfort zone and do something just for me. I don’t know if Hedlund felt the spark I did. Hell, I bet he didn’t. But his attention meant everything. For five minutes, I wasn’t invisible. I was more than a good student, a good friend, or a good daughter…he made me feel like I could be anyone I wanted to be.
And I want to feel that magic again.
My eyes fall to the floor as a sheet of pink tissue paper sticks to the heel of my shoe. I know exactly what I need to do to catch Hedlund’s attention.
Next time, I’ll come prepared.