Alley-Oops I Think I'm Falling in Love (With the Wrong Guy)

| ARIA |

Roscoe wanted to destroy me.

Over the past few weeks, he'd needled me from every angle, always subtle, always maintaining plausible deniability... but I knew. I knew what a petty bastard he was — he had to be, why else would he still be so bitter about a sixth grade rejection?

Alpha-holes always got their way, they didn't like being told, "no." Roscoe had "asked" me to bend the knee many times this summer — through all those micro-aggressions and shows of dominance — but they'd gotten him no where.

This latest push for me to be his AA sponsor or whatever this was, meant he was getting more creative.

I mean, to be fair, it was working. I was more unsettled now than I'd ever been. I couldn't see his angle and that scared me. He knew that I knew he was pretending, so what could he possibly gain from this ploy that wasn't a ploy?

The alternative — that he really did want to be my friend — was laughable. So we chill a few times and suddenly he's a new man?

... Yeah, that math wasn't mathing.

As we filed into the locker room after practice, girls that had never spoken to me directly, were now interrogating me about my whereabouts this morning and how I'd ended up with the notorious Roscoe Tate.

I was melting. Floundering. I was so flustered I couldn't compile a coherent sentence. I made it worse.

The rumors were already spiraling out of control — soon, all of Pepperwood High would think I'd spent the night with him, that I was just another one of his many, fleeting, conquests. And my only crime was driving to school with him!

I couldn't start high school with a scarlet letter painted on my back. It wasn't even the prude in me that balked at this. I just wasn't a chump. I would do just about anything to lose that Virgin Lip Card, but I wouldn't do that.

Dissatisfied with my replies, my teammates took matters into their own hands. Even the seniors were waxing poetic about how "delicious" the "best player in the state" looked — how his piercing gaze felt like he could see through your clothes (which was terrifying to think about), how his icy confidence felt crushing, but was also insanely hot. Or everyone sighed contentedly as they reminisced on his smile.

My stomach wrenched itself into knots.

More and more of my teammates were openly scrutinizing me, like they couldn't quite rectify the awkward, timid, girl they knew, with the girl that had captured the interests of Roscoe Tate.

That's because I haven't, yeesh! He was playing with me like a cat with a mouse!

I tried again to clear my name. I told everyone that Roscoe was a snake, a douche. No one believed me. They thought I was just being stingy with the details.

Pinching my eyes shut, I scoured my brain for some sort of evidence that would exonerate me. The most obvious explanation, aka the truth, felt... wrong. If I told everyone about his drinking problem, it would definitely get back to Coach Brown. And while I had no love for the guy, taking basketball from Roscoe was cruel.

Call it an understanding between hoopers, but I knew the hours, nay the years, required to cultivate that type of talent, instinct, and muscle memory.

Sigh...

I felt a competitive rage when I thought about Roscoe, but I didn't want to burn down the equivalent of his World Heritage Sites. His game was too pretty to waste, it'd be a crime against humanity. I won't lie though, I liked to think about it when he really pissed me off.