Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 19643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
My phone pings while I'm sorting through bean deliveries that evening. I almost ignore it, assuming it's another promotional email or, worse, a social media notification about Mia's latest post. When I finally glance at the screen, James's name lights up my notifications.
James: Elias playing in town next Friday. Got VIP seats. Coming with?
My pulse quickens like I've shotgunned three espressos. I haven't seen James in person since Christmas, though we text every few weeks—mostly memes and updates about his hotel empire. He's the only person from high school I still talk to. I've carefully avoided mentioning my stalled writing career, calling it a "side hustle" whenever he asks.
He also has no idea I've been half in love with his best friend for a decade.
I remember the first time I saw Elias King. Freshman year, Mia "accidentally" bumped into me in the hallway, sending my books scattering across the floor. While she continued walking, not even breaking stride in her conversation, Elias stopped. He crouched down, gathered my copy of Stephen King's Carrie, and handed it back with a smile that made my tongue forget how to form words.
"Good book," he said. "Though not really my top three."
I managed to nod, clutching the novel to my chest as he jogged to catch up with his friends. It was nothing to him, just a moment of basic human decency. To me, it was everything.
Two years later, James told me how Elias had publicly declared that anyone who bullied James would answer to him, effectively ending the torment James had endured since elementary school. They became inseparable after that. It only made me crush harder, knowing Elias wasn't just the hottest man I've ever seen, but genuinely kind.
Then came senior year and that tutoring session. Two hours alone with him at a corner table in the library, helping him with his English lit paper. His knee occasionally brushed mine under the table when he shifted. Once, we both reached for the same book and our heads collided softly. He laughed, rubbing the spot where we'd connected, and I swear my heart performed a gymnastics routine worthy of the Olympics.
It meant nothing to him, I’m sure. I was just another girl, but I spent the next month hanging around the gym after school, pretending to work on the newspaper while I watched him practice from the bleachers. I'd leave before he finished, never wanting him to know I was there.
Elias was also the reason I didn't go to prom. Couldn't bear to watch him dance with Mia. As he would. I told myself I'd get over him after graduation.
All lies.
Ten years later, I still read every article about him, know every brand he works with, and can name both teams he won championships with. Not only that, but his PTS and PPG tallies plus a host of other in-game stats and every player on each team, too. I've never asked James about him since I was too afraid my voice would betray me. or fail me.
Now this.
My fingers hover over the phone screen. The smart answer is no. Seeing Elias in person will just reopen a wound that's never properly healed. I might even make a total fool of myself.
But then…
ME: Wouldn't miss it. See ya.
"You're overthinking this," I whisper to my reflection as I try on the fourth outfit. Nothing says "I'm a successful adult who definitely doesn't still have a pathetic crush on you" like spending forty-five minutes deciding what to wear to a basketball game.
Eventually, I settle on black jeans and the deep blue sweater Jane gifted me on my birthday. My hair cooperates for once, falling in soft waves just above my shoulders and not going in different directions. I keep telling myself I'm just excited to see James. That's it. And that Elias probably won't even notice me in the crowd. Even if he does, he won't remember me. Too long ago, and he's too successful now.
James is waiting outside the arena, his six-foot-four frame easy to spot. He's long since traded the thick glasses and hunched posture of high school for better frames and the confident stance of a man who's purchased multiple properties before thirty.
I am so darn proud of him.
He wraps me in a bear hug, lifting me off the ground.
"Girl, I've missed your face." He sets me down, studying me. "How's the novel coming?"
"Still working on it." I deflect, not really wanting to be a Debbie Downer. "Shouldn't you be out there fluffing pillows?"
"That's what I pay people for." He grins, guiding me inside with a hand on my shoulder. "Come on, we've got the best seats in the house."
He isn't exaggerating. Our seats are so close to the court that I can see the players' expressions. Feel the occasional splash of sweat. James chats easily about his latest business ventures, but my attention fractures the moment the teams emerge for warm-ups.