Hooped #5 (The Hooped Interracial Romance Series #5) (8 page)

“You aren’t. I’m just not that close to anyone else. I
guess after a while I’ll have a friend like that again.” Devon kissed me
lightly on the lips, his hands beginning to wander over my body.

“Until then, I will be your best friend.” I chuckled
as he started to slip his hands under my skirt, his warm skin gliding against
my inner thighs temptingly.

“Oh no—you are not going to be my best friend. I am
not fucking my best friend; it’s against my policies.” But in spite of my
words, Devon really was—in a way, at least—like a best friend. I could and did
talk to him about everything, and I didn’t want to spend time with anyone else
as much as I wanted to spend time with him. I thought with more than a little
trepidation that eventually, from spending so much time together, we would end
up squabbling; we did have a few arguments, but Devon was so easygoing at the
most basic level that he never really got heated.

The majority of our free time was devoted to getting
Devon ready for the championship game. He made a vow—and his frat brothers held
him to it—that he would party no more until the game was won. He and I went to
bed early together, and he woke up even before I did a few times, leaving
quietly to let me sleep
in until
my alarm
while he went down to the gym, or to the courts, to get in another practice.
From the day of the test, Devon had only a few weeks to get ready for the big
game. He wanted to be not only at his peak
—
but
to set a new standard for himself. I respected the fact that Devon wanted to be
even better than before, that he wanted the championship game to be a total
lockout; he wanted to score more points, he wanted to play harder.

I loved the focus he brought to everything he did
anymore. He was just as determined to do well in his classes as he was to do
well in the final game of the season—and all this he credited to me. “You make
me a better guy,” Devon told me while we were taking a break on the courts,
sitting and drinking water.

“You make you a better guy,” I told him firmly. “I’m
just here to lend a helping hand. If you didn’t want to be a better guy in the
first place, no woman would have been enough to persuade you.”

Just as Devon was improving his own life, I was
improving mine. Studying with Devon was even better than studying on my own,
and I realized that we were exactly suited to each other. Devon had a knack for
science that helped me get better at Chemistry in spite of my ineffective
professor, and even when we studied other subjects together, I was
better—sharper—for having talked to him, for having discussed things and taught
Devon about them. We were so perfect for each other that I could never imagine
being with anyone else; my relationship with Devon eclipsed every other
relationship I had ever been in before him. I knew without even having to
discuss it with Devon and without even having to hear it from him that we
were at
the beginning of a very lasting, deep
partnership. I had never been more comfortable with anyone else in my life as I
was with Devon—and I didn’t think that I would ever be as comfortable with
anyone as I had been with him, even though we’d only been seeing each other for
a few weeks. We had been through the most stressful beginning of a relationship
that I could imagine, and we had come through it stronger, both of us more and
more certain that we had made the right decision every day.

Chapter
Ten

It was finally the day of the Championship game; I
shouldn’t have been able to get a ticket—they were sold out, and the tickets
for the special reserved section were full of alumni and family members of the
team—but somehow Devon had managed to convince the school that I absolutely
deserved to be in those very prime seats, cheering him on. Even if I hadn’t
been dating Devon, I would have absolutely been thrilled to be able to go to
the game, since it promised to be an intense one. I had taken the opportunity
to look at the other team’s stats while Devon was getting ready to leave for
the arena, and they had a star player in the same position Devon played; in
fact, of all the teams that our school had gone up against, the one we were
playing for the championship title was the most like ours.

But Devon, I knew, was the better player, just as I
knew that our team was overall stronger—although, I realized as I made my way
into the arena, my heart already beating faster, that they could have been
spending
the weeks
preparing just as
aggressively as our team had. It was definitely going to be a high-scoring
game, and I was anxious to watch it. Part of me was worried for Devon; I knew
that if we didn’t score a decisive victory, he would blame himself for not
having enough time to prepare, having to take time away from the team due to
his previous bad behavior. But I also knew that he was going to play his heart
out
and that the team was very strong. If they
somehow didn’t eke out a win, then it would not be anyone’s fault—it would just
be that the other team had some advantage, some form of
luck,
that
we didn’t have.

If I had thought that the arena was loud the other
times that I’d been inside of it to watch one of the main season’s games, as I
came out of the tunnel and into the stands, it was absolutely deafening. The
other school’s team had brought busloads of their students to the game, and
across the court from them I could see that there were just as many alumni. We
were hosting the championship—giving us the home-court advantage—so I thought
that the other school must have put a lot of money into getting everyone here
from across the state. My body tingled all over, my heart pounded in my chest,
as I made my way to my seat, looking out over the enormous crowd of people,
still growing larger and larger by the moment. I wanted to jump up and down, I
wanted to scream and cheer with the rest of the people in the crowd, but I knew
that it would be a long game—and an intense one. The two teams were not even on
the court yet; over the screams and shouts, I could barely make out the sound
of the two marching bands playing their competing tunes.

I sat down in my seat, smiling to myself as the
excitement of the crowd started to stir something up inside of me. Around me,
alumni and family members of the various team members started to take their own
seats; I recognized some of the people that Devon had introduced me to, and
they recognized me as well. “You’re Devon’s girlfriend, right? His tutor?” One
of the men grinned as he spoke to me. I nodded, laughing and giddy. “You must
be some tutor! I heard he got a near-perfect score.”

“Same score that I got when I took the test,” I
shouted back, in order to be heard over the roar of the crowd.

“He got quite a catch with you, then!” The guy said,
grinning at me again. I blushed, but I couldn’t help but feel proud.
 
Before I had left for the game, I had
carefully dressed myself in school colors; although I didn’t want to look gaudy
or cheesy, I knew that at such a big game, the section I was in was likely to
make it
on
the TV, and I wanted to not
only look my best but also look supportive. I had drawn Devon’s number onto one
of my cheeks with face paint, but I didn’t go overboard; some of the fans in
the stands above me had painted their entire faces, or even their bodies, with
school colors and with the name of the school, or particular players’ numbers.
The girls in the stands were a riot of color, holding up signs, already jumping
and screaming.

Finally, the two teams took to the court at the same
time to warm up. As Devon came out onto the floor, I started cheering, unable
to help myself. On his way to the side of the court where he would warm up with
his teammates, he glanced into the crowd and found me in my spot. The grin he
gave me—full of his usual charm and enthusiasm, the grin that I knew was for me
and me alone—was enough to send a little jolt through me, to make me cheer even
louder.

I watched the two teams, trying to divide my attention
without neglecting Devon, who glanced at me occasionally as he warmed up. The
team we were playing against was strong; I could see from the tightness of
their drills that they had been putting the time
between
their last game and the championship to good use.
But their star isn’t as good as Devon,
I
reminded myself proudly. I fidgeted and shifted, moving to my feet and watching
as the two teams got ready for the game of their lives. I could see cameras
flashing, and just in front of me, there were sports news crews and journalists
capturing the event. It was going to be a hell of a game, and everyone knew it.

It seemed like hours passed as the two teams warmed
up, and I knew that I wasn’t the only one who was relieved when they both
headed back to their benches, the coaches sending out only those players who
were going to be the starters. As Devon made his way to center court, he looked
up at me in the stands, catching my eye and giving me a quick wink, as if to
tell me—as he had at the first game I had gone to
as
his girlfriend—that it was all for me. The crowd went dead
silent as the ref came to the
center,
and
the two teams arranged themselves for the tip-off. I held my breath
unconsciously;
my hands gripped into tight
fists in the few seconds between the ref’s arrival and when the ball went up
into the air.

The other team grabbed possession of the ball, and
everything exploded into
movement
as they
tried to make their way towards our basket. The stands once more erupted into
screaming and cheering, and I was the loudest one in my section, jumping up and
down, watching the game with an intensity that I had never had in my life
before. Devon stole the ball just before the other team’s star player could
throw his shot, and my stomach lurched inside of me with excitement and dread
as I watched him make his way with his other teammates to the other side of the
court. Devon dodged one steal—and I remembered practicing with him, remembered
the hours we had devoted to him becoming better and better at avoiding that
particular move, with a grin.

Our team scored the first basket of the game, and the
crowd went absolutely wild around me. The other team managed to block Devon’s
next shot, and then they got a basket as well. Through the first half of the
game, the players traveled back and forth—sometimes scoring points, sometimes
having the ball stolen, and within minutes I was drenched in sweat from the
heat rolling off of the crowd behind me in waves, and from my own movements and
cheering. We
scored,
and then they
scored; they
scored,
and then we
intercepted the ball to prevent another basket, and then Devon landed a
three-pointer. Back and forth, the two teams ran, and I couldn’t even hear
their sneakers
against
the floor,
couldn’t even hear anything at all from the court itself as the shrieks from
the two sides of the stands filled the air around me.

All throughout the first half, Devon would glance up
at me, either to simply smile, or in a few cases to wave; but for the most part
he was absolutely focused, pressing forward, quick on his feet, snatching the
ball away at the last possible moment. By the time the two teams went to the
lockers for half time, I was already
exhausted,
and I couldn’t even imagine how Devon still had the energy to keep running,
keep dribbling,
keep
shooting.

When the teams came back out again after the break, I
was on my feet once more, not caring that my throat was already hoarse,
cheering like a maniac. Devon was right in the thick of the game once more,
only taking a quick break in the third quarter to grab some water before running
back onto the court. The scores on both sides kept going up, and I felt more
and more pride as Devon managed to sink almost every single basket he
attempted; even though I wasn’t playing with him, I knew that this was, in a
real
sense
, an accomplishment for both of
us. If I hadn’t helped him pass the ACT, then he wouldn’t be there to lead the
team. It was the first of what I was suddenly certain would be many joint
accomplishments through our relationship—and it was the flashiest possible way
of showing everyone watching just what a good partnership we had.

By the end of the third quarter, it was obvious that
both teams
were
starting to become
exhausted. The play was not as fast as it had been in the first
half—understandably so, I thought—and each team was struggling to break out
ahead of the other. We were ahead by only two points—and then as the fourth
quarter started, we were once more neck and neck with the other team. Devon
looked up at the
stands,
and I jumped up
and down, screaming, cheering him on; I was determined not to let him down, not
to let my energy flag for even a moment, so that he would know I supported him
all the way.

The other school’s team pulled ahead, and as the last
minute of the quarter started, it was 74-72—a high-scoring game for college,
one for the sports history books. Devon stole the ball and passed it to Miles,
who sank a basket, leaving the two teams once more dead even. The star player
for the other team managed to snatch the ball away, and everyone on both sides
held their breath as he darted across the court. My heart was in my throat; if
our defense didn’t hold, the guy would have just enough time to land the
game-winning basket. Just when I was wound as tightly as I could possibly be,
Devon darted in next to the guy and stole the ball.