The gymnasium smelled of rubber soles and teenage sweat. The squeak of sneakers on hardwood was deafening. It was basketball practice, but because Bennet Livingston was the captain, half the school was watching.
Brittany had dragged Chelsea to the front row of the bleachers.
"Look at him," she sighed. "He's a god."
Bennet was dribbling the ball down the court. He was handsome, Chelsea had to admit that. Classic all-American looks, blonde hair, blue eyes. But now, all she saw was the rot underneath.
He stopped at the three-point line, spun, and shot. The ball swished through the net.
He turned toward them, flashing a million-dollar smile. He pointed at Brittany, then blew a kiss.
The girls around them screamed. Brittany squealed, digging her elbow into Chelsea's ribs. "Wave back! He's looking at us!"
Chelsea didn't move. She pulled a textbook out of her bag-AP Calculus-and opened it.
Bennet's smile faltered. He was used to her swooning. He was used to her being the grateful, quiet friend who worshipped him from afar.
The coach blew the whistle for a break. Bennet jogged over, wiping sweat from his forehead with his jersey, exposing his abs. More screams.
He walked right up to Chelsea. He didn't ask; he just extended his hand, palm up. Expecting her to hand him her water bottle. It was a ritual. She always brought him Gatorade.
Chelsea looked at his hand. Then she looked at his face.
"What's up, Ben?" she asked.
"Thirsty," he said, winking. "Hydrate me, Chels."
The arrogance. It was suffocating.
Chelsea reached into her bag. She pulled out a chilled bottle of water. Condensation beaded on the plastic.
Bennet reached for it.
Chelsea unscrewed the cap, lifted the bottle to her own lips, and took a long, slow drink.
The silence that fell over their section of the bleachers was instantaneous.
Chelsea lowered the bottle, capped it, and put it back in her bag.
"Refreshed?" she asked.
Bennet's hand was still hovering in the air. He looked like a glitching robot. "Excuse me?"
"I said, I'm refreshed. Thanks for asking." She turned back to her book.
A few guys on the team snickered. Bennet's face turned a mottled shade of red.
"What is your problem?" he hissed, leaning in so only Chelsea could hear. "Are you trying to embarrass me?"
"I'm just reading, Bennet. You're the one standing there with your hand out like a beggar."
Brittany gasped. "Chelsea!"
She quickly shoved her own pink water bottle at him. "Here, baby. She's just... cranky. Ignore her."
Bennet snatched Brittany's bottle, but his eyes were glued to Chelsea. They were cold, angry. "You're acting weird, Molina. I don't like it."
"I don't really care what you like," Chelsea said, meeting his gaze. Her voice was steady, bored. "Move. You're blocking my light."
He looked like he wanted to hit her. For a second, she saw the man who would one day leave her to die in a motel room.
"You'll regret that," he muttered, turning away.
Brittany glared at Chelsea. "What the hell was that? You're ruining everything!"
"I'm going to get some air," Chelsea said, standing up. "The testosterone in here is giving me a rash."
She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out. She could feel Bennet's eyes boring into her back.
She walked out of the gym, past the locker rooms, and pushed open the heavy double doors to the outside. The cool autumn air hit her face.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Bennet.
Stop playing hard to get. It's pathetic. Meet me behind the bleachers after practice and apologize, and maybe I'll forgive you.
Chelsea stared at the screen. The audacity was almost impressive.
She tapped the contact info. Block Caller.
She shoved the phone back in her pocket. She needed higher ground. She needed to see the horizon.
She headed for the maintenance stairwell that led to the roof of the science building. It was strictly off-limits, which meant it was the only place she could be alone.
