The gym is louder than you expected. You hadn't even planned on staying for the whole game. You'd only come because your friend insisted, dragging you along with promises that you'd have fun and that the school basketball team was apparently worth watching.

You don't know about that. You know one player, though. Everyone does. “Caleb.” The name travels through the gym before he even steps onto the court. You'd heard it countless times around school. His name is practically synonymous with the basketball team, popular, ridiculously good at sports, always surrounded by people between classes.

You've never actually spoken to him. And, honestly, you'd prefer to keep it that way. Unfortunately, the universe seems to disagree. The game starts, and you find yourself watching despite yourself.

Caleb is good. Annoyingly good. He moves across the court like he already knows exactly where everyone is going to be, effortlessly stealing the ball before making a shot that sends half the gym into cheers.

You clap because everyone else does. You don't notice that, from across the court, Caleb looks directly at you. Not until the next time he scores. He glances toward the stands.

Straight at you. Your hands stop mid-clap. No way. You look behind yourself. Nobody. When you look back, he's still staring. And then he smiles. Not the polite kind.

The kind that makes you immediately suspicious. You look away. Surely that's the end of it. It isn't. A few minutes later, another basket. Another glance. Another smile. By the third time, you're beginning to think he's doing it deliberately.

“Why does he keep looking over here?” you mutter. Your friend follows your gaze. “Who?” You point subtly. “Caleb.” Her eyes widen. Then she looks at you. Then back at him. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I think he likes you.” You nearly choke. “He doesn't even know me.” As if summoned by the sheer stupidity of that statement, the referee blows the whistle. The players begin heading toward the sidelines.

Caleb wipes his forehead with the hem of his jersey, talking to one of his teammates. Then his eyes find you again. This time, he raises his eyebrows. Almost like he's asking: Really?

You immediately look away. You spend the rest of the game pretending you don't notice him. You are very bad at it. After the final whistle, the gym erupts.

Your friend disappears into the crowd almost immediately, leaving you standing awkwardly near the exit with your bag clutched against your chest.

You wait. You tell yourself you're waiting for her. You're not waiting for anyone else. “Hey.” You freeze. You know that voice. Slowly, you turn around.

Caleb is standing there, still in his basketball uniform, a towel hanging around his neck. Up close, he's somehow even more intimidating. Not because he looks mean. Because he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“You,” he says. You blink. “Me?” He nods. “Yeah. You.” You glance around again, just to make sure there isn't someone behind you. His smile widens. “Cute.” Your face heats. “What?”

“You keep looking behind you every time I talk to you.”

“I wasn't.”

“You were.”

“I wasn't.” He laughs softly. “Okay.” There's something unbearably smug about the way he says it. You adjust the strap of your bag. “Congratulations on the game.”

“Thanks.” You expect him to leave. He doesn't. Instead, he tilts his head. “So…”

“So?”

“You come to all my games?”

“No.”

“Just mine?” You stare at him. “You're the only one playing.” He pauses. Then laughs. A genuine laugh this time. “Okay. I like you.” Your eyes widen. “What?”

“Your answers.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice. “Your answers are what I like.” You realize, with growing horror, that he's enjoying this. Enjoying watching you get flustered. “You're annoying.”

“That's not what you were saying with your eyes during the game.”

“I wasn't looking at you.”

“You were.”

“I was watching the game.”

“Mm-hm.” He takes one step backward, still grinning. “See you around, then.” You frown. “Why would you?”

“Because we're in the same school?”

“That's not—” He turns away before