“Yeah? Fuck you too, Erika.” I spin, heading for the door on wobbly legs.
“What’s his problem?” Someone asks, but music drowns out any replies.
The backyard is crowded, with everyone dancing and drinking around the pool. For fucks sake. I grab another beer and push through, leaving the noise behind.
Dribble, dribble, clang, bounce. Dribble, dribble, clang, bounce.
Alone in the driveway is—shit, that’s Matt Fowler. Basketball phenom, full ride to Iowa, three years ahead of me. I take a second to stare. Everyone crushed on Matt Fowler. Including me.
“Hey,” he calls between dribbles. “Want to play?”
Cynthia Hamill 