Her Courtside Dream

Chapter Twenty-Three

Four days. Four days since I let all my feelings spill out to Chase like an emotional landslide. Part of me couldn't believe I'd said all those things. Even now, as I replayed the scene over in my head, I was cringing.

How had I been brave enough—or maybe dumb enough—to say all that? I wasn't even sure if I'd made any sense.

Yeah, it was definitely the alcohol. No way would sober Kali have had the guts to stand up to Chase like that.

But despite the messiness of it all, I couldn't help feeling a little relieved. For once, I didn't just let him walk all over me. I didn't swallow my feelings and pretend like his actions didn't sting. I told him the truth—or at least, my truth. That had to count for something, right?

Still, I wasn't ready to face him. Not now. Not after I left him hanging at the party. After I just... spilled everything and walked away. He was about to say something, and I bolted before hearing it.

And now, as I walked towards Wainwright's class, my stomach was in knots, my palms were sweaty, and my thoughts were a mess.

What if he tried to talk to me about it? What if he brought up the party? What if he acted like nothing happened at all? I wasn't sure which option terrified me more.

I slowed my pace as I got closer to the door, like somehow, dragging out the seconds would change anything. I wiped my sweaty palms against my jeans, trying to calm myself down.

Just go in, sit down, and avoid eye contact. Simple, right? Except I wasn't feeling the alcohol-induced bravery anymore. Now I was just regular, awkward Kali who could barely stand to look him in the eye.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and pushed the door open.

The moment I stepped into the classroom, I saw him. Immediately. There he was. Chase. Sitting right beside my usual spot.

My heart did this weird, traitorous flip like it couldn't decide if it wanted to race or stop altogether. His head was slightly tilted down, but I could see his gaze through the messy strands of his hair as he looked at me from under his lashes.

His right hand was resting on the desk, fingers tapping lightly against the surface like he was waiting. Waiting for me to sit down. Waiting for me to acknowledge him. I couldn't. I couldn't handle whatever conversation he wanted to have.

I felt a surge of panic flood my chest, and I immediately tore my gaze away, staring at the floor like it held all the answers to my life's problems. My face felt hot, and I hoped to God he couldn't tell how flustered I was just from that brief eye contact.

What was I supposed to do? My usual seat was right next to him, but there was no way I could sit there. No way. Before I even realized what I was doing, I veered off course and headed straight for the front row.

The very front row—a.k.a the place I'd never willingly sit unless I wanted to avoid someone behind me. I could practically feel the weight of his stare on the back of my neck as I slid into the seat, but I kept my eyes forward. I could only hope he wouldn't call me out on the obvious avoidance.

What was I thinking? He was going to know. Of course, he was going to know. I'd been sitting on that spot, and now I'd suddenly decided to move up front? It was like waving a giant red flag that screamed, "I'm avoiding you!"

But it was better than sitting next to him and pretending like I wasn't still spiraling from our last encounter. Better than risking him leaning over and asking, so, about the party...

Nope. Nope. Nope. I wasn't ready for that conversation.

Wainwright's class blurred by one long, monotonous hum. I tried to pay attention—I really did—but my mind was miles away. Every second, every word Wainwright said, was background noise to the chaos running through my head.