Six

A week had passed since the fight at the basketball court and the ongoing suspension of Kevin.

Coach was forced to strip the captaincy from him because things were spiraling; the locker room was a powder keg, and Kevin was the match.

Coach eventually alerted us to how he'd pick the new leadership: a scrimmage. No politics, no popularity contests, just ball.

The players he deemed fit would be chosen, and there wouldn't be any room for complaints. I was a wreck.

What if another Kevin stepped in? I wasn't ready for another season of looking over my shoulder for racist slurs or 'accidental' elbows to the ribs.

I was currently in the empty girl's locker room, pulling on my jersey for the friendly match when, as usual, the doors burst open. I didn't even have to look up.

"If it isn't the mixed-race freak," Margaux spat, her arms folded tight as she tried to loom over me.

I chuckled. I couldn't help it. She was so predictable.

I raised a brow when she looked confused. "How original, Margaux. What do you want this time? A hug? Or perhaps you'd prefer a kiss?" I smirked, taking slow, predatory steps toward her.

"Ew. I wouldn't even want to touch you, let alone kiss you," she retorted, her voice dripping with a disgust that didn't quite reach her eyes.

I brought my hand to my chest in mock pain. "You wound me. Here I was thinking you had a crush on me—you just won't leave me alone." I saw her eye twitch. Bingo.

"You shut the fuck up, freak. I know you're hiding something and I'll find out what it is, sooner or later." She jabbed a finger toward my face, her cheeks flushing.

I was right in front of her now, peering down. God, she was tiny. I decided to push it. I leaned forward, pressed a quick, mocking peck to the tip of her pointing finger, and stepped back.

She froze, her jaw dropping as she stared at her hand like I'd just branded her.

When she snapped out of it, she frantically wiped the finger on my shirt. "Don't ever try that again!" she hissed, flipping her hair and storming out.

I watched her go, an amused grin playing on my lips. If she was going to haunt me, I might as well make it fun.

The court was a madhouse. I stepped out and blinked at the packed bleachers. Students, teachers, even the janitor was leaning against the wall.

"Hey, why are they here?" I asked Michael as I started my stretches. "I thought this was a closed practice."

We did our signature handshake. "News spread like wildfire, Remi. Everyone wants to see who the new king or queen—" He raised an eyebrow at me. "—is gonna be."

"Great. No pressure," I breathed out a shaky sigh. It wasn't just the crowd; I hadn't played a real game in months.

My old school, my old life...it felt like a lifetime ago. I used to have someone in the stands who made the noise disappear. Now, it was just me.

"You have nothing to worry about," Michael said, wiggling his brows. "We'll do this together. Captain and Co-Captain, imagine that."

"Ha! You wish. Those muscle-brains won't let a girl lead them." I shrugged. It was the hard truth.

"I have a surprise for you anyway." Michael put an arm around my shoulders. "Look."

He did the jazz hands toward a group of six cheerleaders. My jaw nearly hit the floor. They were wearing tight shirts with my face on them, chanting my name and throwing air kisses.

I scanned the group, feeling a weird sting when I realized Margaux wasn't one of them.

"How'd you even arrange this?" I asked, genuinely impressed.

"I know a guy who knows a guy," Michael grinned. "Come on, let's meet Coach."

As we walked, I felt a heavy gaze on my back. I turned, searching the crowd until my eyes landed on Margaux.

She was glaring with enough heat to melt the floor.

I mouthed, "What?" and she just rolled her eyes, her scowl deepening. Okay?

Coach blew his whistle. "Alright! Team A: Jason, Zayn, Trevor, Aiden, David. Team B: Franklin, Peyton, Michael, Remington, Tom. Fair and clean, or you're expelled from the team. Choose a representative for the coin toss."

I walked over to my team, hoping for a bit of solidarity.

"Hi, Remi," Peyton said with a sympathetic sigh. "I'm sorry about Kevin and...everything else."

"It's no problem," I replied.

"Cut the nice act, Remington," Tom snapped, his face twisted in a scowl. "She was fine warming the benches. She's gonna drag us down."

"So you're sexist and racist?" Michael stepped into Tom's space. "Say it louder so Coach hears."

Franklin, the quiet giant, pushed his glasses up. "Leave her alone, Tom. She's earned her spot."

After Michael threatened to get Tom benched for the season, we huddled. "Who's going up?" Peyton asked.

"I vote Remi," Michael said, clapping my back.

"No, I can't," I protested, my stomach doing somersaults. "They already look for any reason to mock me. If I fumble the toss..."

"Get out of your head," Michael whispered, massaging my shoulders before shoving me forward. "Woman up."

Coach clapped me on the back, his hands were the size of dinner plates. Seriously, what's with everyone and hitting me in the back?

"Heads or tails, Alvarez?"

"Tails," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. Trevor picked heads with a cocky smirk.

Coach flipped the coin. It caught the gym lights, spinning high before slapping into his palm. "Tails. Your call."

"Defense," I said firmly.

As Coach walked away, Trevor leaned in, his voice a low venomous hiss. "Once I'm captain, you're benched for the year, freak."

"Oh yeah?" I looked down. "Maybe learn to tie your laces first, Trevor."

He fell for it, looking down instinctively. I flicked his nose hard.

"Bye, Trevie." I winked and walked back. The chuckles from the bleachers made the victory sweet.

The whistle blew. Trevor caught the ball on the tip-off and exploded toward our side.

He was fast, a blur of muscle and ego.

I moved to guard him, my sneakers squeaking against the polished wood.

Franklin stood tall at the net, knees bent, arms wide. Trevor looked for an opening, his eyes darting to Jason, but my attention stayed on his jersey.

He tried to swerve, but I mirrored him. He went for a pass, and I timed it perfectly, lunging into the lane and snatching the ball mid-air.

I took off. The court opened up. I wove through Zayn and Aiden, the ball an extension of my hand. I saw Tom in the corner and zipped the ball to him.

He took off, Jason on his heels.

By the third quarter, my lungs were burning. The game was tied, and the aggression was peaking. Trevor wasn't just playing basketball anymore; he was hunting.

"Fake passes aren't working," Tom panted during the break. "They've adjusted."

"Let's brainstorm," Peyton suggested.

"I'm point guard, Peyton's small forward, Michael's power forward, Franklin's center, and Tom's shooting guard," I said, pacing. "We need something mind-blowing."

"What about a fake shot?" Michael asked. "We did it in the first, but they'll be expecting a pass now."

"We did that before but just at the first quarter, they won't remember that after all this time. So we'll do that but we need more than that," Tom pointed out and we all nodded.

Peyton began clicking his fingers for our attention. "Okay, listen. We use their aggression against them. Trevor is obsessed with blocking Remi. So, we run a Triple-Threat Screen. Remi, you drive toward the paint like you're going for a layup. I'll break left, Micheal breaks right. Trevor and Zayn will swarm you because they're greedy for the block."

He leaned in closer, dropping his voice. "The second they commit to the jump to block your 'shot,' you're not shooting. You're dropping into a low crouch and bouncing the ball between your own legs back to Tom. He'll be trailing behind you, completely unmarked. By the time they land, the ball is already through the hoop."

At first, we were all against it—the plan was flashy and risky—but we needed to win this for the sake of it, so we agreed.

When the last quarter began. Trevor was already breathing down my neck like a freight train. "I wonder what you all have up your sleeves this time around. I'm going to enjoy crushing it."

"Keep wondering, wonder boy," I shot back. "Maybe you'll finally figure out why you look nothing like your father." His face turned a deep, angry purple.

He stepped into my space, whispering, "You'll leave here in a body bag."

"What you need is to leave with a dentist, because your breath stinks," I mocked, holding my nose.

Coach tossed the ball, pulling us apart. I went for it, but Trevor's shoulder slammed into my ribs, sending me sprawling.

I scrambled to my feet, ignored the ache, and dove back into the fray.

The game was a blur of collisions. "Just let me sink this shot so I can captain your ass," Trevor gritted as I blocked his path.

"Not a chance." I stripped the ball from him. I was exhausted, every shove taking its toll. I saw Peyton wide open and launched the ball toward him.

Then, the world tilted.

Trevor's full weight slammed into my side. I hit the floor hard. My head bounced off the hardwood, and the air left my lungs in a silent scream. Black spots danced in my vision.

I heard a whistle. Yelling.

"Fuck, Remi, can you hear me?" Michael's face floated above me. He was tapping my cheek. I tried to speak, but only a wheeze came out.

"Take her to the nurse!" Coach's voice boomed. Michael and Franklin hoisted me up, my arm hanging at a sickening angle.

We burst into the clinic. Nurse P took one look at me and cleared the room. She was young, but her hands were steady as she checked my pupils.

"Slight concussion," she muttered. "And this wrist..."

She handed me a cloth. "Bite down."

She grabbed my wrist. I bit the cloth, a muffled scream tearing through my throat as she popped the joint back into place.

Tears pricked my eyes.

She began wrapping it, but then she stopped. Her eyes dropped to my lap. The bulge was unmistakable in the thin athletic shorts.

My heart stopped. Heat flooded my face. I stood up abruptly, the world tilting slightly as I tried covering myself with my good arm. "I-uh, it's not what it looks like."

"Is that a—are you—"

I didn't wait. I bolted out of the room, my face flaming.

"Thank god, I'm glad you're okay." Micheal engulfed me in a side hug as he noticed my wrapped up arm.

"Me too," I stammered, barely hearing him.

"Oh, Franklin went back to the court. Coach said to head back too if you're feeling well enough to walk," Micheal murmured, his eyes still kept on analyzing my injured arm.

"Onward then," I said, gesturing for him to lead the way.

Back at the court, Coach was surprisingly soft, telling me to rest up but to still show up for mild practice on Monday.

I saluted him and retreated to the locker room, desperate to hide.

I began humming Lily Allen's "Smile" to keep from crying, stripped to my bra and briefs, and stepped into the shower. The hot water felt like heaven on my bruised skin.

Afterward, I wrapped a towel around my waist.

Slam! I flinched.

"Who's there?" I asked. No one answered. I shrugged it off as the wind and started the shower.

The hot water was the only thing keeping me from collapsing.

When the water stopped, I stepped out, wearing just my underwear with a towel wrapped around my waist.

I was reaching for my bag when a voice made me nearly jump out of my skin.

"I wonder what you're hiding beneath that towel, freak."

I slammed into a locker, my heart racing. "Christ! The hell is wrong with you? You don't sneak up on people like that!"

"I thought you knew I was...around." Margaux let her eyes wander. I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way I never was on the court.

My injured hand moved to my crotch again, hiding the one thing I couldn't explain.

"Y-you should go home," I stuttered.

"Not so fast. What were you covering?" She pinned me against the locker, her palms flat against the metal on either side of my head.

"Nothing. I just didn't like you staring."

I could have pushed her away. I could have moved her hands like they were nothing, but I didn't. I just stood there, trapped by those piercing eyes.

"You're lying. Are you scared I'd do something bad to you?"

"I'm telling the truth, okay. Now, can I go? It's going to rain."

She finally stepped back, and I dressed as fast as my shaking hands would allow, my back turned to her.

We made it to my car in a tense silence. "You're being too quiet," I sighed, the frustration of the day finally bubbling over. "Do you need something?"

"Yes, actually. A ride home."

"Ask nicely." I challenged, leaning against the driver's side door.

"Ugh, fine. Could you please take me home?" she pouted. It was the most human she'd looked all day.

"Better. Get in."

I sat down, and she immediately folded her arms with a scowl. "You're even more annoying up close."

"So you even watch me from afar? I'm honored, Margaux Dubois." I couldn't help the jab.

"Shut up, freak. What are you mixed with anyway? You have an Asian look." She gestured around my face, and I found myself leaning into the curiosity.

"I'm half Chinese, and Cuban."

"Oh. So you can speak both languages?"

"Yes...and a few more. Italian, French, Russian."

"Tell me something. Please."

I looked at her, really looked at her, at a red light.

"Okay...Mi sono rotto il naso colpendo il muro. Italian for 'I broke my nose hitting the wall.' And... Siempre he querido un perro. Spanish for 'I've always wanted a dog.'"

"That's actually impressive. Don't tell anyone I said that." I caught her looking at my lips, and for a second, the car felt very small.

"Don't worry, I'm already sucking it up. Your secret is safe with me," I said, patting my chest.

She rolled her eyes, but the tension had shifted from 'I can't stand you' to something much more confusing.

We pulled up to her house—it was a literal fortress. I felt a sudden pang of sympathy. Who needs a house that big?

"I guess I still would've found your house easily if you didn't give me your address."

There wasn't a retort to my light joke, there was this look I couldn't decipher in her eyes before she opened the door.

"Goodbye, freak," she said, leaving the car.

I watched her go, clutching my steering wheel. My father had warned me about girls like her, and my heart was warning me that I was getting way too attached to someone who called me a freak every five minutes.

This was going to end badly.