The Game

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𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑶𝒏𝒆 - 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍

The bell finally rang, and I slid out of Chemistry with my binder hugged to my chest. Crestwood Academy always looked loud after last period — red, white, and gold bleeding down the hallway walls in banners and framed photos of state titles, kids talking over each other, sneakers squeaking, beats leaking from somebody's AirPods. It was okay here, friendly faces and familiar slang, the kind of place where you picked up nicknames and kept them for life. I kept my head down anyway. I didn't feel like navigating anybody's drama before practice.

I hit my locker, spun the combo, and dumped my books. AirPods went in my backpack, phone into my back pocket. My braided ponytail had survived the day, but I still smoothed it like it mattered. It did. Because practice meant the East gym. And the East gym meant him.

I groaned under my breath and pushed through the huge double doors.

The basketball team had already started their usual drills, squeaking patterns across the glossy court. Most girls would've been delighted to watch the Crestwood Lions run sets — and don't get me wrong, I absolutely was. I just would've enjoyed it more if people didn't treat me like crap every other day. Top reason I hated being the water girl. I had to be at every training, every game, all the workouts. The only reason I ever showed up and kept showing up walked through the doors looking fine as ever.

Christian Kordell Anderson — Chris — came in like he owned the place, white Jordan duffel hanging off his shoulder, pulling eyes the second he stepped in. I was sitting on the bench near the cart, and my heart got to pounding for no reason like it didn't know better by now. I straightened in a way I hoped said "regular human girl" and not "about to pass out."

He looked up from his phone and toward my bench. Of course I'd been staring. Of course he caught me. I started to smile and pretend I was scrolling, but a rank towel slapped over my head and stole my whole view.

I cursed under my breath, grabbing for the towel. Before I could get it off, someone else yanked it away. I blinked up — straight into Chris's frown.

"Hey, that ain't cool, man," he said, turning to the culprit. "She a girl, not a gotdamn towel rack for your sweaty ass."

Of course it was Kareem Neverson. He threw his hands up and smirked. "Aye, it ain't my fault she can't catch."

Couldn't believe it — Chris had actually defended me. Inside, I was doing a whole victory dance that would've embarrassed my mama.

"Have some respect, Kareem," Chris said, then looked back at me. "You alright?"

"I— I'm f— fine," I managed, because my mouth never knew what to do around him, and my brain always arrived late.

"You sure?" His eyebrows pinched. "'Cause with his nasty ass, that towel had to smell like roadkill."

I didn't giggle. Not out loud. I just ducked my head, trying not to grin and missing the moment I should've said something smooth.

"I— I'll be—" I started, but a shrill squeal sliced the gym.

"Baby!"

Kayoni slid up on him like she owned property in his personal space. I hated the sound of her voice on principle. Chris smiled — of course — and hugged her like we couldn't all see. She tugged him down and kissed him like she was collecting rent.

He deserved better than her trifling self. And no, I didn't mean me. It wasn't about me being jealous — not that I'd ever admit it out loud — it was about the facts. Chris deserved a girl who treated him like her other half. Someone who spoiled him with love, who saw the king in him, who appreciated him for being him and stuck through thick and thin. A girl who met more than two needs. I had never seen that in Kayoni — unless you counted the sexual and "brag different to friends" needs. He put in the work while she played a two-faced mattress actress. The relationship served her clout, not his heart.