Chapter 21 Carrie #2
Over on the other bench, you could cut the air with a knife. The Cardinals’ opponents are on edge. I don’t like them. They’re aggressive, too rough—and the ref agrees with me.
My eyes dart back to Don just as he snatches the ball off a player and makes a lunge for victory.
It all happens so fast. The other guy spins on his heel and lunges for Donovan, reaching his arms out to block him, but Don dodges to the side and twists, lining up his shot.
I dig my nails into my seat, ready to leap to my feet any second now, trembling with anticipation.
Just as Don jumps, the other guy surges out of nowhere and rams him with his shoulder, sending Don falling back in slow motion and crashing onto the ground.
“Fucking asshole!”
The words come spilling out of me. The subs twist in their seats.
The crowd erupts, and the coach is losing it, yelling something I can’t make out at the ref.
Don clambers to his feet, a hand clasped over the shoulder that broke his fall, his face twisted in pain. He makes a beeline for the other player, and they stand there, inches apart. Donovan’s lips move. The other guy is taller—but Donovan is on fire.
Break his fucking jaw!
The ref blows his whistle. Foul.
I’m still on my feet, the blood thrumming in my ears, and when that scummy number 34 turns back and shoots Donovan a shit-eating grin, I lose it.
“Fuck! That piece of shit thinks he’s funny, huh?”
It’s not like me, and I’m not the only one baying for blood. But the guy glances over at me.
“Take this, you clown!” I hold up my middle finger. “Bigger than your dick, am I right?”
Adam yanks on my sweater, laughing. “Chill, Carrie.”
Number 34 frowns at me, but I carry on waving my finger at him, until Adam forces me down into my seat.
My blood is boiling. I pull my sweater off and ball it at my feet. Glancing up, I catch Donovan’s eye as he smiles at me. Okay, so maybe that was a little over the top. Breathe, you dumb fool.
Play starts again, and number 34’s foul costs them two free throws.
When the whistle blows for halftime, the gap between the teams has widened. I watch as the players head into their locker rooms. Donovan is rolling his shoulder, prodding at the muscle. That asshat hurt him, I realize—and that makes me mad.
When the team comes back out, my gaze instantly locks on Donovan, who is jogging along the sideline, warming up and obviously trying to loosen his shoulder while the teams reset for the second half.
He glances over at us. “Having fun, Carrie?”
“How’s your shoulder?”
“Berenson got me good.”
I frown. “Someone needs to rip that guy a new asshole.”
Lewis bursts out laughing. I hadn’t even realized he was there—I was way too focused on Don.
“I need a Carrie in my life.” Lewis smiles. “Say the word, and I’m yours. My dick is way bigger than your finger, by the way.”
Donovan whacks him in the face with his towel and crosses his arms.
“Wanna tell me what happened to my jersey?”
“It’s in my bag. Perfect for muffling the yawns.”
“Oh, please.” He rolls his eyes at me. “I heard you back there. You were giving serious fangirl vibes.”
Adam nods. “I think we all heard. You nearly got yourself kicked out, Carrie!”
“I’d like to see them try,” I mutter.
I glance across the court. The Berenson guy is staring me down, so I stare back harder—but the seconds tick by, and that asshole doesn’t so much as blink. He doesn’t seem pissed at me, either. Annoying.
“Dude.” Lewis perks up. “Berenson is jerking off to your girlfriend.”
Don clicks his fingers in front of my face. “Carrie, cut it out!”
“I’m just trying to hypnotize him.”
“Stop!”
“Give me two more seconds, and I can get him strutting around like a cheerleader.”
Suddenly, Berenson mouths the words “Call me.”
What the hell? I insult the guy, and he wants my number?!
Lewis gasps. “Absolute disgrace, dude! He’s totally hitting on her!”
“He’s just trolling her,” Adam says calmly.
“Um, hello?” I throw my hands up. “Or maybe he just thinks I’m hot?”
“It’s probably both,” Adam admits.
“Maybe trash talk is a turn-on for all basketball players,” I start to think.
Lewis shakes his head. “You basically insulted his dick in public. If that turns him on, then I have one piece of advice, Carrie—run.” His eyes slide across the court. “Fucking psycho!”
It occurs to me that Donovan hasn’t said a word this entire time.
I turn back to him. He’s gazing at my feet, deep in thought.
Guess he doesn’t give a shit. Why would he, though?
Sure, Berenson is the enemy—but ultimately, so what if another guy hits on me?
Why would Donovan care? Disappointment swells in my chest.
The coach calls his team over, and the players cluster around him, leaving me alone in my depressing little bubble.
I’m spending way too much time with Donovan Wolinski.
I head to the restroom before play starts up again, and just as I’m sliding into my seat, Berenson winks at me.
I roll my eyes hard. I was joking when I said maybe he thinks I’m hot—but the way he’s acting, I can’t help but wonder.
If he’s hitting on me to piss off Donovan, it’s not working—the guy’s fully focused on the game—but still, number 34 doesn’t let up.
When he nails a three-pointer, he turns and flips me the finger, and I silently pray he breaks a knee.
Some of the crowd are picking up on his obsession with me, glaring at me like I’m a traitor.
“It’s not my fault,” I snap at a student giving me the side-eye.
“Yeah,” Adam growls. “Back off.” He turns to me. “Hang in there, Carrie. We’re nearly done here.”
This is so freaking awkward. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being the center of attention.
I wish the ground would just swallow me up, but there’s ten minutes until the end of play.
I look down at my bag. If there’s one way to prove how little I give a shit about Berenson, it’s this. I pull on Donovan’s jersey.
With every point Wolinski scores, I leap to my feet and yell at the top of my lungs, clapping so hard my palms start to sting, and when the final buzzer echoes through the room, the Cardinals have won and I feel like I’m about to have a stroke.
Adam tugs on a strand of my hair. “You enjoy yourself?”
“Okay, maybe I did.” I nod. “I’m not sure I’ll be doing it again, though. I think I just gave myself high blood pressure.”
“Don’t worry about Berenson, he knew that you and Don are—”
He clears his throat.
“That we’re what?” I press.
“Friends. He was trying to throw Don off. It’s standard.”
“Well, he picked the wrong girl to mess with.”
Adam gets to his feet and hands me my sweater.
Don and the team are busy being interviewed, and though I try to catch his eye, he doesn’t look my way. I hate to just bail like this, but I really need to get out of here—the air’s hot and stuffy, and I’m scared a Cardinals fan might come after me.
I trail Adam out to the parking lot, relishing the icy wind on my skin.
“Wait for me in the car, I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, tossing me his keys before evaporating into the crowd.
I stalk across the parking lot and lean against the trunk, jingling his keys in the palm of my hand as a minute turns into ten turns into fifteen. If I didn’t have these, I could make my own way home, but as it is, I need to wait for Adam.
I pull an e-book up on my phone and start reading, when suddenly I hear voices. I jerk my head up. The other team’s bus is parked right there. I narrow my eyes. Someone is striding over toward me. I suppress a shiver. Number 34.
I fumble in my pocket, but it’s too late. By the time my fingers brush against the keys, he’s already here.
“Hey!”
I tilt my chin up defiantly and bat back a lukewarm “Hey.”
“Luke Berenson.” He holds out a hand, which I ignore. “I’ve come to restore my honor.”
“You’re not planning on flashing me, are you?”
He laughs. “Nice car,” he says, nodding in approval.
“The game’s over, you know. You can drop the act.”
“What act? I was serious, back there. About wanting your number.”
“I’m a technophobe.”
“A technophobe with a phone?” he presses on.
“Oh, this little thing?” I wave my cell in the air. “I found it right here on the ground. I was about to crush it. Want it?”
“You’re funny.” He smiles at me. “It’s cute.”
Oh my God. Where the hell is Adam?
I point to the bus. “Your people are waiting for you.”
“So, just to be clear—do I have a shot?”
“Hmm, let me think about that.” I press a finger to my chin. “You hurt Wolinski, so—no. Unless you mean—do you have a shot at being turned into a human sacrifice for my next satanic ritual.”
He laughs out loud. What the fuck?
“So, is he your boyfriend?”
“Who, Satan?”
“Wolinski.”
I’m about to shoot back a reply when an engine revs. Berenson and I look around at the same time. It takes me a second to recognize the car pulling up beside us, half a second to sense just how pissed the driver is.
Donovan leaps out of his car, his features pulled tight, and my heart skips a beat. I don’t want there to be a scene, but we’re not on the court anymore—there’s nothing stopping Donovan from making Berenson pay now.
Fuck. These guys are huge. How do I stop this?
Donovan glances back and forth between us, his eyes darkening, and warning bells are ringing in my ears. Could I collapse to the ground? Pretend to faint to make it all stop?
“Great game.”
My mouth falls open. I stare at Don in surprise.
“You slaughtered us, but we held up okay.” Berenson nods.
“Next time you go for me—try harder.”
“Will do, boss.”
Ummm… What?
“Ready to hit the road, babe?”
It takes me a second to grasp that I’m the babe in question and not this Luke guy.
Slowly, I turn to Don.
This whole situation is wild, and it gets even wilder when suddenly his mouth is covering mine as he slips his tongue between my lips, his fingers kneading at my hip, pulling me into him.