Page 183 of Ruthless Court

“Very subtle.”

During the next warm up set, I notice a little girl in the first row.

She wears an oversized Stanford jersey and a red bow almost as big as her head. A small box of Twizzlers rests in her lap.

She catches me looking and holds it up.

I point at the candy.

Her face lights.

I wink, and she turns toward her mother, nearly bouncing out of the seat.

The Twizzlers pull Hannah straight back into my head.

Her family-sized bag in the library.

Her hand around my wrist.

The threat involving a pencil.

The red candy between her lips while she tore apart my argument.

I jog toward the bench for water.

My phone should be locked inside the locker room.

Instead, it’s tucked into my warm-up bag near the chairs.

I take it out.

No message.

We aren’t supposed to text courtside. Coaches hate the distraction, and cameras are everywhere.

I type anyway.

Me: Your seat is still empty. I feel lonely and stood up.

I send it, lock the screen, and return the phone.

Noah blocks the nearest camera angle while I zip the bag.

“Risking a benching for romance,” he whispers.

“It was one text.”

Vale walks past on his way toward the lane.

“Smooth.”

“Keep moving.”

He grins and joins the bigs beneath the basket.

Noah shakes his head.

“You’ve lost both of us now.”