“No! Violet? Really?” I joke.
She holds up her phone. “No, really. She said she’s too busy to pick me up after the game because she’ll be at a rehab center.”
“A rehab center?” Missy asks. “Who’s in rehab?”
“Apparently, it’s Matt Moore’s dad.” Hannah sucks in a dramatic breath. “I just found out that my sister pulled some strings and got a few of my dad’s contacts to donate money so that he could be set up there.”
“Why on earth would she do that?” Kylie asks.
“I don’t know, but I’m guessing it has something to do with the magazine interview she has scheduled for today about her work as a good Samaritan.” Hannah chuckles.
“And all this time I thought Violet was hooking up with Matt,” I say, under my breath.
“I didn’t even know Matt’s dad was an alcoholic,” Zoe says.
“Me neither.” Abby adds.
Everyone looks at me.
“Did you?” Hannah asks.
“It’s a rehabilitation center for sick people. Matt’s dad is in a wheelchair,” I answer.
“Oh. No wonder he fought Nick the other day,” Jessica says. “That’s horrible.”
“Did you know my sister was doing this?” Hannah asks.
“Not exactly,” I reply, feeling the butterflies flutter in my stomach. All I can think is: Violet was in it for the fame. She and Matt were never an item. And best of all, he’s single!
sixty-three
The Beachwood stands are filling up faster than the butterflies are taking residence in my stomach. I’m surprised to spot the guys’ team in the stands, especially with three-B logos painted on their chests.
But I quickly turn away, refusing to make eye contact. Today my focus is on Richland. No distractions.
“Girls, bring it in!” Coach Jackson calls out. She and Coach Martie are standing by the sidelines.
We hustle over and I breathe in deeply, attempting to stay calm.
“This is it.” Coach Jackson surveys the team, making eye contact with each player. “When we win today, we qualify for the playoffs and earn our three-peat.” Coach pulls out her clipboard. “It’s time to show Southern California that BW is still number one.”
“Stay tough today. Remember mental toughness and teamwork win championships,” Coach Martie adds.
Then both coaches turn around and meet the opposing coaches in the middle of the court for the coin toss.
Tamika gives us a pep talk of her own. “Forget about last week. Let’s just give it one hundred percent. Think about everything we’ve sacrificed. Every lap we ran. Every drill. The three-B’s. Today’s our day. Let’s do it.” We pile our hands in the middle of the circle. “Team on three. Ready, one, two, three.”
We shout, “Team!”
After the team is announced and the “Star Spangled Banner” plays, one by one my teammates jog onto the court. Meanwhile, Kylie and I each take a seat on the bench. Coach decided that with all the drama, it wouldn’t be fair for us to start. Still, we’re at the edge of our seats, super anxious to get into the game.
“Be ready to go in.” Coach Jackson glances at us.
We smile at each other. We’re going to get to some court time after all.
I watch Missy take my spot at center court as Richland’s center, Nikki Rodriguez, glares at her. I think Rodriguez is even bigger than she was last Friday. If that’s even possible.
I shift in my seat. It should be me out there. Rodriguez has at least eight inches on Missy.
“Is everybody ready?” The ref points to the players, then bends at the knees. “Here we go!” He tosses the ball into the air.
Rodriguez easily tips the ball back to her waiting guard. The guard snatches the ball, and Rodriguez sprints down the court toward her basket. Missy takes off behind Rodriguez, but the guard launches the ball into Rodriguez’s open hands. She easily lays it right into the net, leaving Missy trailing behind.
“Missy! Get into better position!” Martie screams from the sideline.
After Rodriguez easily scores eight more points, Coach Jackson looks at us. “Taylor, Kylie, go in.”
When the ref blows the whistle a minute later as the ball rolls out of bounds, Missy and I slap hands. She looks relieved to leave the center position.
“Come on, Taylor!” I recognize my dad’s voice bellowing from the crowd.
Kylie takes the ball out of bounds and, like Coach predicted, Richland is pressing hard and tough.
I make my way to my spot on the foul line. Rodriguez is nasty, and our one-on-ones become shoving matches for position. Hannah’s right. On the court, I’m the opposite of nice.
“Calm down, girls.” The ref eyes us.
“Press break eleven!” Kylie calls from her spot as guard. She darts around the court like an ornery puppy as Richland defends us full court and tight.
Kylie bounce passes the ball to our strong forward, Eva. She catches it and swings around, jabbing her elbows for position. Eva then returns the ball to Kylie who uses Tamika as a pick.
Jessica runs toward me for the pick. She stands in front of the Richland guard with her arms across her chest.
I run at Jessica. She picks off Rodriguez. Rodriguez sends Jessica sliding toward the sideline on her butt. Ouch.
Meanwhile, Kylie launches the ball my way and I set up.
After I release, I stand for a moment and watch the ball swish through the net. This basket is sweeter than ever.
“You got lucky,” Rodriguez says as she runs past me. “And remember, I’ll be the one wearing the purple and yellow this summer.”
I look at Rodriguez and chuckle. She can try to provoke me all she wants. This three-peat is all ours.
sixty-four
With five minutes left, we go back and forth with Richland like a seesaw. First, they’re up by two. Then we’re up by two. It’s crazy.
During a time out, Coach grabs a white clipboard and begins to scribble circles and squares all over it. “Okay. It’s time for the full-court press,” she announces, huddling next to me.
Fireworks rip through my stomach. Something about full-court defense makes me flustered. Not tonight. Not now.
“Jessica, you stay on number two.”
Jessica nods and squirts water into her open mouth. Her ponytail is saturated with sweat.
“Eva, I want you to trail twenty-one.”
Eva nods, adjusting her headband.
“And Tamika, on number forty-four.”
Tamika smiles and glances over at Richland’s huddle.
“Kylie, you’re on the guard tight. And Taylor, you stay with Rodriguez. Let’s deny the ball and trap. Give it everything you got.”
I shake out my hands and jog in place. Focus. Focus.
The buzzer sounds to signal the end of the time-out. The gym is super quiet.
“One, two, three, team!” we shout.
We jog out onto the court. Rodriguez smirks at me as their guard grabs the ball. “You gonna trip and fall today, Thomas?”
“Whatever, Nikki.” I roll my eyes. “You so wish you were runway material.”
Rodriguez laughs. “I’m SoCal material.” Then, she hangs out by the end line, watching and waiting. I know what she’s doing. She thinks she can use her speed to beat me to the basket. I take a couple steps back and turn my body so I’m ready for a sprint.
The ref tweets his whistle and hands the ball to the guard. Just as expected, Nikki takes off toward the basket. But I’m two steps ahead of her. I stick to her, cutting off the launch pass at the last second to grab the ball. Rodriguez flies past me, crashing into the wall, shocked the ball isn’t in her hands.
Quickly, I take off toward the basket, leaving Richland’s guard no choice but to hack me in the lane. After almost a year of weight training with a personal trainer, I’m strong enough to get murdered under the basket and still easily lay the ball up into the net. And that’s what I do just as the ref blows his whistle.
�
��One-four, foul, basket counts, one,” the ref signals to the center table. The crowd hoots and cheers. My mom and dad are on their feet, clapping wildly. My teammates surround me.
At this point, we’re up by two. If I sink this basket, they’re forced to shoot a three. If I don’t sink this, then an easy basket could tie and put us into overtime. I make my way to the foul line, taking in long, fluid breaths, calming my nerves.
The two teams line up as I set up behind the foul line. The ref stands inside the paint and holds the ball. He does a quick position check and tosses me the ball for the foul shot.
As I bounce the basketball, it echoes through the silent gym. I take a deep breath and stare at the far rim, like I always do when I’m shooting foul shots. Deep breath. Bounce again. I bend down and set up for the shot.
“You stink!” a guy from Richland’s side yells.
“Don’t choke like you did last night,” someone else adds.
I grin and release, waving at the ball as it sails towards the basket.
Swish.
Again, the crowd goes nuts and my teammates huddle around me. Richland’s guard takes the ball outside the line, and I stick to Rodriguez like gum on a shoe. With twenty seconds left, our full-court press is on again. Kylie does jumping jacks, attempting to stop the guard from in-bounding the ball. The ref stands next to Richland’s guard, counting down the seconds with his hands.
Finally, the Richland guard finds Rodriguez, who breaks away from me with her speed and footwork. The entire gym is on their feet. Rodriguez is known for her three. I stay tight on her, hoping I can stop her dribble. But, she breaks right and I give her a few steps.
“Foul her,” Coach Jackson calls.
I stand in front of Rodriguez and realize I’m better off fouling her before she sets up for the three. Before she lifts her arms to shoot. I slam into her hard.
The ref blows his whistle. “Foul, number four, one and one.”
“That’s three shots. She was shooting a three!” the Richland coach shouts from their side, throwing a fit. She throws down her clipboard in a huff. White pieces of paper scatter across Richland’s side.
The ref ignores the craziness and returns to the line. Rodriguez sets up at her basket. She finds her spot behind the line, and I glance at the clock. Five seconds. Most likely, she’ll sink the first one. Then she’ll bang the second one off the backboard, hoping someone will grab the rebound and sink the shot for the tie.
The gym is silent. I stare at Rodriguez as she bounces the ball. She sets up and shoots. Swish. Of course. She’s Rodriguez.
“Box out!” I hear my dad yell.
Rodriguez receives the ball again and sets up behind the line. Everyone is thinking the same thing: Will she make it? Or will she bank it?
She sets up. Right away, I can tell by her form that she’s banking it to go for the tie. So, I get into position to box her out. My heart skips.
Bam. The ball hits the rim and ricochets right back toward Rodriguez’s hands. I box Rodriguez out and successfully block her from the rebound. The ball falls into my hands. With Rodriguez tight against me, attempting to foul, I turn around, clasping the ball. Kylie shouts to catch my attention. She’s standing in front of me, completely open. I launch the ball toward her. She dribbles and easily lays the ball into our basket.
That’s when the buzzer goes off.
sixty-five
The crowd goes nuts. My teammates jump up and down. Our Wildcat mascot tosses blue and yellow confetti into the air. Even the fans join in on the craziness.
After my team releases me from the group huddle, my dad rushes down to the court and smacks me on the back. “Way to go, Spider!” He smiles ear to ear.
I half hug my dad. “Thanks,” I say, and I mean it this time.
“Nice job, big sister.” My mom embraces me.
When I turn away from my parents, I find myself standing in between Zach and Matt.
“Amazing, Taylor,” Zach says. “It’s like my playoff game last year when Garrison and I . . .”
I roll my eyes and face Matt, who’s beaming.
Zach places his arm around my shoulders.
Instantly, Matt’s expression flips.
I wiggle out of Zach’s grip. “Listen, I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again. I should have never hooked up with you.”
Zach opens his mouth to respond and I cut him off, “Seriously, I couldn’t care less what you have to say. I don’t know if I ever really meant anything to you or not. But I don’t care. We’re done.”
Zach harrumphs, and I turn around to address Matt. “The rehab,” I say, out of breath. “And I’m not on your three-B list. . . . And you’re not with Violet.”
“A what? What are you talking about?”
“And the card. That was so sweet.”
Matt looks confused. “Taylor, I never gave you a card.”
“You mean you didn’t stick a card in my locker the other day and say you wanted to meet me at the beach?” I ask, mentally trying to place the rest of the puzzle pieces together.
That’s when Zach taps me on the shoulder and interrupts once more. “Hate to intrude, but I figured I should just break the suspense and let you know that it was me who sent the card. It started out as a three-B thing, but I’d still be into hanging out, especially after seeing how hot you get when you’re angry.”
I give him a look that screams, “Are you kidding me?!?”
I don’t know whether he’s totally oblivious or just narcissistic, but he continues, “You sure you don’t want to meet me at the beach tonight? I’ll meet you at eight, just like the card said . . . babe.”
“Zach,” I reply, “as tempting as that offer is,” I roll my eyes, “why don’t you just take a hint and leave? Let’s just say that: One, my hotness is totally not dependent on whether I’m angry; and two, I can get guys when I want to, and I don’t want you.”
“Hate to break it to you, Spider, but who would think a girl falling off a runway is hot?” Zach rudely retorts.
Matt steps in. “I would.”
I give Zach a look, successfully raising one eyebrow (FIRST TIME EVER!!!), and turn to Matt. More butterflies flutter around my stomach than ever before. “You, huh?”
“Yeah . . . me. I’ve been trying to tell you for a while now, but . . . uh . . . I . . .” Matt fumbles for the right words. And all of a sudden it clicks. The poems: “Chocolate,” “Red . . . .” They were about . . . me.
I grab Matt’s sweatshirt sleeves and, in the middle of the gym, pull Matt’s face toward mine, not caring in the slightest if anyone sees. He kisses me gently at first, tasting like cinnamon. Then he pushes harder and deeper. The kiss is amazing and perfect and sparkly and everything I ever imagined a kiss would be. Wayyyy better than my kiss with Zach.
When our lips pull apart, I smile and he nuzzles my neck.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” Matt whispers in my ear, sending chills down my spine.
Then, I look around and realize that we’re standing in the center of the school gymnasium. I hear a few snickers and catcalls, but I decide to ignore them. It was so worth it.
“Taylor!” Coach Jackson calls to me. She’s standing next to the SoCal Suns coach. “If you and Mr. Moore have finished whatever business you have together, Coach Delamarte would like to talk to you again.”
I let go of Matt’s hand and begin walking toward Coach. However, I’m distracted by the sight of our fans lifting Kylie on their shoulders. “Hey, Taylor!” she shouts. “Come over here.”
I look at Coach Delamarte, unsure about what I should do.
“Enjoy your win. The SoCal Suns will definitely be here when you’re done,” she says.
I mouth “thanks” and jog over to Kylie. When I reach her, I’m promptly hoisted onto some random fan’s shoulders in between a flood of people still cheering and chanting Wildcats on the sweaty gym floor . . . all for us. That’s when Coach Martie hands Tamika a pair of silver scissors. One by o
ne, Kylie, Tamika, Eva, Missy, Jessica, Zoe, Abby, and I hold the cool heavy scissors and snip down the thick net. Together. As a team. And it’s the best feeling in the world.
Finally. I’m going to have the best story to share on Monday morning.
acknowledgements
First off, thank you to Jane Schonberger and everyone at Pretty Tough who work hard everyday to make sure sporty girls are given the respect, acknowledgement, and spotlight they achieve and deserve. It’s an honor to write for the Pretty Tough brand. Thank you to Gillian Levinson, Lexa Hillyer, Ben Schrank, and everyone at Razorbill for your hard work. I’m thrilled to work with such an amazing team, especially my Diet Coke-guzzling, hard-working, detail-oriented, and extremely talented editor. A special thank you to my fairy agent, Michelle Grajkowski, for making my dreams come true. I’m truly blessed to have you in my life.
A huge thank-you hug to Christine A. Baker, Lauren Lesser, Katia Raina, Colleen Rowan Kosinski, Carrie Harris, Nicole Destefano, Scott Neumyer, Cyn Balog, Nancy Viau, Michael Troso, and all my sporty buds who read bits and pieces of this book and offered their valuable insight and advice. Also, thanks to Karen Andronici, Sandy Poulton, and Donna Kinn for your career mentorship, guidance, and cheers.
And finally, an enormous thank you to my family. Thanks to my biggest publicists, Mom, Dad, Ron, Ida, and Kelly, for rooting me on, first as an athlete, now as an author. Sydney and Sabrina, thanks for making me giggle and for being my very first audience. Kaci Olivia, thanks for lighting up my life and giving me the courage to write. And last, but certainly not least, thank you Justin, for listening to every single word I type, talking me off the ledge, and for your endless, unyielding support. I love you.
This book was written in memory of Amy Schuenemann Voorhees, a Pretty Tough athlete and teacher, who was taken from this world way too soon.
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