“If they’re all here, we should start checking that the food’s still heated.”

On cue, we all moved.

Hadley and Owen went to the kitchen to do their thing.

Trent went out the regular office door. I didn’t know what he was doing, but I figured it had to do with the job he’d been hired to do here. And me? My job didn’t start—well, shit. I didn’t know. Tonight? Tomorrow morning?

I went to the kitchen.

Owen was checking the thermometers.

“Do I open the courts tonight?”

“Yeah. I think so.” He was distracted, going through all of the steam drawers. “Keith didn’t say?”

Hadley came from the dishwashing area carrying two serving spoons that were still wet from being cleaned. She waved them in the air, helping them air dry. “He mentioned that after dinner they’d do the opening reception with Trent,” she said. “Then maybe they’d all want to congregate on the courts after.”

No way I was going to ask Keith about this directly. “You’re thinking I should open it after the welcome ceremony and close it at midnight?”

Owen pop-locked his shoulder back. “Yeah. I think that’s a good idea. You can close them if no one shows up.”

I clipped my head in a nod. I almost saluted him—I was that grateful he hadn’t told me to go to Keith.

I glanced around.

I was still pretending I didn’t know who was filling up the cafeteria, but we were all hearing their voices.

“What can I do to help?” I asked.

Owen was already moving around me toward the door.

Hadley eyed me. “Are you going to be okay? Got your question habit in check?”

I nodded. “I’m working on it. I used to have it in check.”

She nodded. “You always did like the dishes?”

It was said as a question, but also a suggestion. And she was right.

There was a whole mess of dishes already there, asking me to clean them. I could hear their voices. “Charlie. Wash us. Make us shine again. Pleeease.”

Okay, that was creepy, but there’s something about holding a power washer in your hand and aiming at any surface you want to punish.

The window to the cafeteria was open, where the dishes would be stacked, but I wasn’t paying attention. I wouldn’t pay attention. Walls. I needed them up and erect in my brain. I reached for that powerful nozzle.

The handle felt like it’d been waiting for me all these years. I almost heard it saying, “Welcome back, my little Charlie.”

And I smiled.

There was Garth Carzoni.

I almost fell into the dishwasher.

I should’ve stopped gawking, but I couldn’t.

The randoms were bouncing in my head, though I’d put a block on them. Every time I felt one coming, I bit down on my lip. I’m pretty sure I was bleeding, but what else could a slightly stalkerish-girl do to keep sane?

Apparently, bleed.

And ignore the one player I’d probably pee myself if I saw. I couldn’t handle knowing whether he was here, so he was locked in that special place in my mind.

They had all eaten, and Keith and Trent were at the front giving everyone the run-down on the campgrounds and rules. I knew this routine. When they stepped away, the coaches would step up and continue with whatever needed to be said.

After that, I didn’t know.

But until they took off, my inner basketball fan was melting down inside.

Terry Bartlonguesen.

I made a weird-sounding gurgle. It started as a sigh, but I caught myself and barked out an alien something again. I wasn’t sure what it was.

I couldn’t breathe. My heart nearly stopped working as he leaned over and whispered something to Matthew Crusky.

Matthew Crusky, everyone! The Cruskinator. The Cruskimachine.

Double-down on the weird alien sigh.

I sagged again, but grabbed for the sink and caught myself.

Right.

Look away. Brain walls. Brain walls. They needed to be erect.

Firm.

Standing upright and ready.

I felt my knees going.

I couldn’t stop myself.

I went back to my stalker/gawking mode.

Beau Michems.

The crowd surges to their feet and gives a standing ovation. Ahhhh. Ahhhhh.

And he was sitting next to Juan Cartion.

Juan Cartion. Juan the Speedster Cartion! His other nickname was the Chia Pet because his hair would frizz up during every game. The announcers loved teasing him about it. He wasn’t the Chia Pet here, though. His hair had been slicked down and combed to the side. He was the shooting guard, and—I was about to embark into Pure Insanity Mode, so I had to guard myself, ram up the shields—he was Reese Forster’s best friend.

My mouth dried up, just thinking of him, thinking his best friend was in the room. His best friend was twenty feet from me.

Me. From me!

“Settle down, Cherry Popper.”

“Cherry Popper?” I turned around and raised an eyebrow. “Are you using reverse psychology on me? Hoping I’ll want to pop your cherry.”

Trent laughed. “I was hoping for projection. I’m projecting my fantasies onto you.”

I snorted. “Hate to break it to you, but my cherry was popped long agooo…oo…oh shit.”