the Van Nuys crowd counted down.
“FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO!”
At the two-second mark the forward heaved the ball back to Adam, who took it at the top of the key, just outside the three-point circle. He pump-faked …
“ONE!”
And let fly with a rainbow of a jump shot.
“Go in the basket!” Sam screamed as the buzzer sounded, ending the game.
The ball swished home. There was a huge roar from the Beverly Hills fans as Adam’s teammates mobbed him. The Van Nuys fans, though, were stunned into silence, unable to believe that they’d just been beaten on a three-point basket launched only moments before time ran out. As the Van Nuys coach dashed onto the court to berate the impassive officials, Cammie almost smiled. It was too funny. People really cared about this shit.
Out on the court, Adam’s grin was high voltage as he high-fived his teammates. Cute smile. In fact, the whole package was cute. But of course, he wasn’t Cammie’s type. The celebration wound down; Adam and his teammates ran back toward their dressing room, but not without acknowledging their cheering fans. Adam waved toward Cammie and Sam. Cammie watched Sam wave back. Big time. Which left Cammie with two big questions.
What was going on between them? And if there
was
something going on, why hadn’t Sam talked to her about it?
The post-game party was at the home of Kyle Bauersachs, one of the substitutes on the Beverly Hills team. However, his father was the most successful personal injury lawyer in southern California, which was why the family owned one fantastic mansion off Bellagio Road in Bel Air and another oceanfront one in Malibu. Mr. and Mrs. Bauersachs permitted Kyle to host one post-game party per year, at the mansion of his choice.
Kyle had chosen Malibu this year. To ensure a good crowd at the Van Nuys game, he’d passed the word that any student who brought his or her ticket stub could come to the after party. Some enterprising kid had printed fake stubs and sold them for five bucks a pop, which accounted for why guys pushing a decade older than high-school were hitting on the high school girls. And why so many cars were trying to get over Topanga Canyon that there was a traffic jam at the turn onto Pacific Coast Highway.
Cammie somehow got separated from her friends soon after they came through the front door, so she strolled around on her own. The house was ultra-modern—in fact, it looked like it had been lifted wholesale from the set of
A Clockwork Orange.
All stark furniture, right angles, white walls, and vaguely phallic-looking sculptures, the main living room was a seething, writhing mass of students and friends celebrating the unlikely victory.
Cammie saw Kyle coming out of the kitchen, a case of Belgian beer in his arms. He was still in his basketball jersey, since he hadn’t gotten into the game. His eyes lit up when he realized that Cammie Sheppard had actually showed up at his party. “Cammie! Hi!”
She waggled two fingers at him. “Nice party, Kyle.” “Hey, thanks. Catch me later, let’s dance!”
She nodded, thinking, Over my cold, dead body, you loser.
She wandered into a game room, filled with pool tables, Foosball sets, and a giant plasma television that was showing music videos. To her left was a wide corridor that evidently led to a suite of bedrooms. A guy Cammie had never seen before leaned against the door frame and scanned her from head to foot and then back up again. At least twenty-five, and he already had a beer belly.
Ex–USC frat boy, Cammie thought automatically. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” The frat boy was saying hello.
“I don’t have one,” Cammie said, dripping vocal icicles. “When’d you graduate from the University of Southern California?”
“Two years ago,” Frat Boy 25 said. “I’m Lenny. Kyle’s cousin. Mmm, you look good enough to eat. You been down to the hot tub, clothing
very
optional?”
“Gee, I haven’t, Lenny. Not yet, anyway. You heading
“FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO!”
At the two-second mark the forward heaved the ball back to Adam, who took it at the top of the key, just outside the three-point circle. He pump-faked …
“ONE!”
And let fly with a rainbow of a jump shot.
“Go in the basket!” Sam screamed as the buzzer sounded, ending the game.
The ball swished home. There was a huge roar from the Beverly Hills fans as Adam’s teammates mobbed him. The Van Nuys fans, though, were stunned into silence, unable to believe that they’d just been beaten on a three-point basket launched only moments before time ran out. As the Van Nuys coach dashed onto the court to berate the impassive officials, Cammie almost smiled. It was too funny. People really cared about this shit.
Out on the court, Adam’s grin was high voltage as he high-fived his teammates. Cute smile. In fact, the whole package was cute. But of course, he wasn’t Cammie’s type. The celebration wound down; Adam and his teammates ran back toward their dressing room, but not without acknowledging their cheering fans. Adam waved toward Cammie and Sam. Cammie watched Sam wave back. Big time. Which left Cammie with two big questions.
What was going on between them? And if there
was
something going on, why hadn’t Sam talked to her about it?
The post-game party was at the home of Kyle Bauersachs, one of the substitutes on the Beverly Hills team. However, his father was the most successful personal injury lawyer in southern California, which was why the family owned one fantastic mansion off Bellagio Road in Bel Air and another oceanfront one in Malibu. Mr. and Mrs. Bauersachs permitted Kyle to host one post-game party per year, at the mansion of his choice.
Kyle had chosen Malibu this year. To ensure a good crowd at the Van Nuys game, he’d passed the word that any student who brought his or her ticket stub could come to the after party. Some enterprising kid had printed fake stubs and sold them for five bucks a pop, which accounted for why guys pushing a decade older than high-school were hitting on the high school girls. And why so many cars were trying to get over Topanga Canyon that there was a traffic jam at the turn onto Pacific Coast Highway.
Cammie somehow got separated from her friends soon after they came through the front door, so she strolled around on her own. The house was ultra-modern—in fact, it looked like it had been lifted wholesale from the set of
A Clockwork Orange.
All stark furniture, right angles, white walls, and vaguely phallic-looking sculptures, the main living room was a seething, writhing mass of students and friends celebrating the unlikely victory.
Cammie saw Kyle coming out of the kitchen, a case of Belgian beer in his arms. He was still in his basketball jersey, since he hadn’t gotten into the game. His eyes lit up when he realized that Cammie Sheppard had actually showed up at his party. “Cammie! Hi!”
She waggled two fingers at him. “Nice party, Kyle.” “Hey, thanks. Catch me later, let’s dance!”
She nodded, thinking, Over my cold, dead body, you loser.
She wandered into a game room, filled with pool tables, Foosball sets, and a giant plasma television that was showing music videos. To her left was a wide corridor that evidently led to a suite of bedrooms. A guy Cammie had never seen before leaned against the door frame and scanned her from head to foot and then back up again. At least twenty-five, and he already had a beer belly.
Ex–USC frat boy, Cammie thought automatically. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” The frat boy was saying hello.
“I don’t have one,” Cammie said, dripping vocal icicles. “When’d you graduate from the University of Southern California?”
“Two years ago,” Frat Boy 25 said. “I’m Lenny. Kyle’s cousin. Mmm, you look good enough to eat. You been down to the hot tub, clothing
very
optional?”
“Gee, I haven’t, Lenny. Not yet, anyway. You heading
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