HIGHSCHOOL CHAOS!Homework, Hormones and Horrible Timing

TWO

CHAPTER 2

     Sports period is the best part of the day. It's the one time when everything feels less monotonous, and we actually get to do something fun. The boys in our class usually focus on cricket; batting, bowling, fielding. I can hold my own, but lately, basketball has been my thing. With the inter-school competition looming, practice is becoming a daily grind.

Today's no different. The basketball court is split down the middle: one side has me and my buddies working on drills and perfecting our shots, while the other side has a few girls shooting around. Most girls use this period as a break, which is understandable, but there she is again, right in the middle of the court.

"Hey, pass it here!" I call out to Jake, who's trying to perfect his three-pointer. He tosses me the ball, and I dribble to the far side, trying to ignore the nagging thought at the back of my mind.

Every time I see her, I wonder: why is she on the court? Is she actually into basketball, or just killing time? If she likes it so much, why isn't she on the team? It doesn't make sense.

"Nice shot!" Ryan shouts from the sidelines, giving me a thumbs-up. He's my usual partner in crime, always ready with a cheer or a sarcastic comment.

"Thanks," I say, panting a little. "I'm just trying to get my act together before the big game. Speaking of which, check out the other side of the court."

Ryan glances over and raises an eyebrow. "Oh, look who's interested in the girls' basketball game. What's she doing over there?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I've seen her here a lot lately. It's like she's just messing around."

"Maybe she's just here for fun," Ryan suggests with a shrug. "Not everyone's obsessed with making the team."

Before I can respond, Jake wanders over, catching the tail end of our conversation. "What are you two debating now?"

"We're trying to figure out why Isabel's always on the court but never on the team," I say. "I mean, if she's into basketball, why doesn't she just join?"

Jake rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on. You guys don't know the whole story?"

"Enlighten us," Ryan says, leaning in. "What's the deal?"

"Alright, here's the scoop," Jake says, glancing around to make sure no one else is listening. "She's really into sports. She participated in almost every event during sports day last year. . track, swimming, you name it. But she doesn't join the basketball team because of some personal reasons. Something about a family commitment or an old injury; she never goes into detail."

"Seriously?" I'm surprised. "I didn't know any of that."

"Yeah, most people don't," Jake says. "She's pretty private about it. But she's definitely into sports. Just not team sports, for whatever reason."

"So she's not just messing around," Ryan nods. "There's more to it than we thought. How'd you know about this?"

"It's because she and I were in the same section last year," Jake confirms. "She's not avoiding the team out of lack of interest. There's more going on, but I don't know the details."

I glance back at her, watching how focused she is as she practices her shots. It makes more sense now, but it leaves me with more questions. If she's so dedicated to sports, why keep it so quiet? And what's this personal reason that's holding her back?

The mystery deepens, and as I return to practice, I'm even more intrigued by her. There's clearly more to her than meets the eye, and I can't help but wonder what she's hiding.

When the bell rings, signaling the end of sports period, we head back to class, muscles aching but spirits high. The water cooler in the hallway is buzzing with activity, as usual; crowded with students chatting, laughing, and loitering. It's always the social hub before classes start again.

I join Ryan and Jake at the cooler, where the chaos is in full swing. "Hey, did you see that last shot I made?" Ryan asks, grinning. "I swear, I'm on fire today."

"Yeah, if by 'on fire' you mean 'almost missed the entire hoop,'" Jake quips, elbowing him in the ribs. "You were aiming for the wrong basket, man."

Ryan shoots him a mock glare. "You just don't understand my athletic genius."

We laugh, jostling each other as we try to refill our water bottles. The cooler's surrounded by a sea of students, and it feels like a battle just to get a drink.

I stand there, waiting my turn, the heat from the game still clinging to my skin. Sweat drips down my forehead, and my shirt sticks uncomfortably to my back, but my attention is barely on the crowd.

She's there, standing a few people ahead, her quiet figure somehow standing out in the chaos. Her hair's a little tousled, and she has that same distant look, as if the noise and movement around her don't quite reach her. She isn't talking to anyone, just waiting her turn, lost in her own thoughts.

The line moves forward. The heat, the rush of students, and the closeness of it all creates this strange energy, but I keep my eyes on her. A shove here, an elbow there; everyone's too busy, too caught up in their own world to notice anyone else.

She's next in line. I move closer, trying not to make it obvious that I'm watching. As she leans forward to fill her bottle, the crowd surges, pushing people in every direction. I'm caught in the wave, pressed forward by the movement. My arm brushes against hers; an unintentional, fleeting contact.

That's when it happens.

Her water bottle slips from her hand in the confusion, and in her effort to catch it, the edge of the cap scrapes against my wrist. A sharp sting follows, a thin scratch leaving a trail of red on my skin. I flinch, not from the pain but from the sudden awareness of how close she is, the unexpected touch making my heart race in a way that doesn't make sense.

She turns slightly, her eyes flickering with surprise, as if she's just realized I'm there. Our eyes meet for the smallest fraction of a second before the moment slips away. She mumbles a soft "sorry" under her breath, barely audible over the noise of the crowd, then turns back, securing the bottle in her grip.

And that's it. A simple, insignificant interaction; one that lasts no more than a heartbeat.

But I stand there, staring at my hand, feeling ridiculous for letting something so small affect me. Yet that tiny scratch feels like it's broken through the invisible barrier between us, a fragile reminder that she exists in my world, that she can touch me ~ even accidentally.

In that moment, surrounded by the noise and the chaos, it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of us, like that brief touch has opened a door I never knew existed.

And now, more than ever, I want to step through it.