The Color Of Grace (2 page)

Chapter 2

My face flaming hot and my hair no doubt molten lava by this
point, I kept half-walking, half-sprinting from number forty-two, a
complete—but totally hunky—stranger who’d just suggested we have children
together someday.

But. Oh. My. God. The most beautiful boy on the planet had
just hit on me. Wait. The universe. Yes, the most beautiful boy in the universe
wanted to know my name.

Except…

One of his friends had probably dared him to approach me.

“Yo man, flirt with that homely-looking
Hillsburg chick there taking pictures when we run by her. I dare you.”

In answer, he had surely rolled his eyes and snickered
. “Yeah, right. I’ll pass.”

“No, seriously, man. Beer’s on me the
next party we have. I got a fake ID to pay and everything.”

“Okay, fine. You’re on. I’ll get her
name.”

But poor Ryder—or whoever he really was—hadn’t gotten squat
from me. No free beer for him, ha, ha.

My shoulders straightened with pride for preventing myself
from helping him win his dare, if it had indeed been a dare, which I felt
certain it had to be because, well, come on. He was from Southeast. I was still
technically a Hillsburger. We were adversaries.

Right?

I raced around the sidelines, back to the safety of Bridget’s
side, where she still sat in the pep club section, clicking off pictures of
Hillsburg cheerleaders and students with painted faces.

I plopped down next to her and stared straight ahead as I
spoke out the side of my mouth. “Don’t look, but number forty-two from
Southeast just…” Just what? I wasn’t too sure what he’d just done. “He
just…asked me for my name.”

Bridget gasped and looked.

“I said don’t look!”

“Whoa,” Bridget answered, her jaw coming loose and her mouth
gaping open.

I elbowed her. “Stop looking.”

She didn’t. “Gracie, I don’t think it matters. He wouldn’t
see me right now if I ran out into center court and did a line dance in my
bathing suit. He’s too busy ogling
you
.”

“He…he what? Right now?” I spun and looked too.

Bridget wasn’t lying. Number forty-two had returned to his
team and stood in line behind three players, waiting for his turn to throw a
figure eight with two other teammates. But he wasn’t paying a lick of attention
to his warm-up drill. He really was staring across the floor directly at, yep,
me.

I gulped. Whoa.

He smiled. I’m not sure how I could tell he smiled from where
I sat all the way on the other side of the court, but something about the
change in the atmosphere around him told me everything in him brightened. He
lifted his hand and gave a quick, little flick of the wrist, waving as if
acknowledging he saw me watching him. The player behind him nudged him in the
back, making him return his attention to his warm up just in time to catch a
ball flying toward his face.

I spun away and sucked in a breath. “Oh, my… Oh, my…” I
looked to Bridget for guidance. “What do I do?”

“Well, what happened? Details, woman, details.” She snapped
her fingers in front of my face like that would speed along my brain.

It didn’t. As shaken and mixed up as I was, I didn’t know up
from down.

“I…” Feeling absolutely rattled, I could only stare at her.
“I…”

“You what?”

“Well, I... And he… But then I turned him down and he…he…”

“You turned him down?
Him
?”
Bridget spun to point at forty-two.

By the scandalized way I grabbed her hand and jerked it
toward the floor, one would’ve thought she’d just aimed a gun instead of her
finger. “I didn’t…I didn’t…I…”

Bridget thumped me on the back, right between my shoulder
blades as if I were choking and needed air. And like some kind of old record
player that had slipped back on track, I was able to stop sputtering. I spilled
out the entire encounter in hyper speed, not even pausing to breathe.

“Technically, I couldn’t really turn him down. He never
asked me out. He just asked for my name, and I said, ‘Not interested,’ because,
well really, what else could I say? Then he went totally weird on me, talking
about the words ‘not interested’ as if they were my real name, asking if it was
from German or Irish decent.” I looked at Bridget and sucked in air since my
head had gone a little light from lack of oxygen. “Then he said we should name
our firstborn child ‘Absolutely.’”

Bridget’s eyes widened to the size of marshmallows—not the
minis but the big marshmallows you put on s’mores. “He did not,” she whispered.

I nodded. “He so did.”

“Holy Hosanna, Grace. That’s just awesome. Totally awesome.
What’s his name?”

“Ryder,” I uttered in a hollow voice. “He said his name was
Ryder. Not that I believe him. But that’s what he said.”

“Ryder,” she murmured huskily. “I like it. Ryder what?”

I shrugged.

“Oh, for the love of—” Snatching an abandoned roster off the
bleacher seat behind us, Bridget ripped it open and bit her bottom lip as she
ran her finger down the column. “Forty-two. Forty-two. I don’t see a
forty-two.”

I glanced over her shoulder and found her scanning the wrong
team’s list, so I helpfully suggested, “Probably because you’re looking at
Hillsburg’s roster.”

Bridget growled out a sound of irritation and turned the
page. “Hey, here it is. Forty-two. His name really is Ryder. Ryder Yates.”

“Ryder Yates,” I repeated in a reverent manner.

“Holy Hosanna, Grace. He’s gorgeous. Just gorgeous.” She
patted me approvingly as if it were my fault Ryder Yates was gorgeous.

I rolled my eyes and clenched the back of my teeth. But I
forced myself to relax a moment later, remembering what my new stepfather
always said to me about dental care and how bad gritting one’s teeth was. The
thought of braces didn’t appeal; I immediately loosened my jaws and ran my
tongue over my molars, apologizing to them for the possible harm.

Needing another escape outlet, I glanced down at my fingernails.
I didn’t see any dirt or gunk under them but picked them clean anyway. “Why do
you say Holy Hosanna?” I muttered, hoping that’d be a sufficient change of
subject. And honestly, I had always wondered. She said it more than I said “honestly”,
which the nerd herd teased was my special catch phrase.

Bridget gave a half shrug, lifting her camera to focus on
number forty-two through her lens. “’Cause.” She sounded distracted as she
concentrated on her task. “It’s like cussing, but not. You know.” She shrugged
again. “My dad doesn’t freak if I say Holy Hosanna.”

I cast a brief glance across the court only to see him sitting
on the bleachers with his team. Not paying any attention to where his coach
knelt in front of the group, avidly talking with his hands and pointing at a
clipboard on the floor to give last minute instructions before the game, Ryder
Yates turned his head my way.

I whipped my attention back to my friend and cleared my
throat. “But technically, isn’t it still taking the Lord’s name in vain?” Her
dad was a preacher and didn’t approve of commandment breakage. He’d probably
prefer to hear a real curse word than someone deriding God.

Bridget lowered her camera with a dramatic sigh and a roll
of the eyes. She swiveled her head to send me a dry stare. I swear, no one held
a stare like her. She could get her meaning across on facial expression alone.
If I were Bridget, I don’t think I’d ever speak. I’d just look, and people
would know.

“I just say it. Okay? Holy Hosanna. I’ve always said it. Why
are you taking issue now?”

I gave my own half-hearted lift of the shoulders. If I told
her the truth—I was trying to divert her attention away from Mr.
Still-couldn’t-take-his-green-eyes-off-me—she’d read too much into my answer
and realize how truly traumatizing this was for me. Best friends sucked that
way sometimes. It was nearly impossible for a girl to keep anything to herself
with such a close companion like Bridge.

But, Holy Hosanna, Ryder Yates
was
gorgeous. A gorgeous boy had acted interested in me for the
first time in my life. It was the strangest sensation, knowing such a complete
hottie was checking me out. Of all the people in the crowded six hundred
fifty-capacity gymnasium, I was the one to hit his radar. I had no idea how to
deal with the attention. So, I pretty much functioned in freak mode—as in, I
was so freaked out I needed a change of subject before I drove myself insane
from excitement.

Bridget lifted her camera again, zoomed in, and clicked off
a picture of him.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, utterly panicked. I swung
out my arm and whacked her precious mechanical piece of equipment out of her
grasp, making her lose her hold and drop the camera, until the strap around her
neck caught it and made it thump against her stomach. Yeah, wouldn’t Mr.
Forty-two be so proud
she
actually
knew how to use her strap. “Don’t take a picture of him!”

With an aggravated twist of her nose and mouth, Bridget
lifted her camera and inspected it for damage. She blew off a speck of lint and
patted it reverently.

“Why not? Adam and Schy aren’t going to believe this unless
I have proof. Visual, pictorial proof.”

I opened my mouth to tell her the other two members of our
nerd herd didn’t need to learn about this. Ever. But the buzzer sounded again,
letting everyone know it was time to start the game.

Bridge popped to her feet. “Ooh! Hold that thought. I want
to take pictures of the cheerleaders’ gymnastics when they call out the
starters.”

As she hurried off, I remained behind, too afraid to move.
The announcer boomed the name of the first Hillsburg starter, and everyone
around me clapped, roaring with approval. Two cheerleaders did back flips
across the floor. I picked up the roster and examined Ryder Yates’s stats.

Number forty-two, Ryder Yates, senior, six feet even.

That was all it said. Staring at that single line, I gnawed
on my bottom lip, wishing they could be a bit more descriptive with their
player information, something more along the lines of, “Honor roll student,
class president, and history club member. Likes spending time with his family
and friends and taking long walks down deserted country roads. Lover of small
furry, animals and cute babies. And in desperate need of a good, faithful girlfriend.”

But no, all I got was his age, height, and name. Bummer.

Bridget nudged my elbow. “Game’s starting. Were you going to
take any pictures tonight?”

I jumped, not realizing she’d already returned from her
photo-taking jaunt. Surprised to find all ten starters on the court and in
position to begin, I blinked, then immediately searched for number forty-two.
When I didn’t find him on the floor, I frowned and looked again before scanning
the entire gymnasium. When I finally spotted him on the bench two spaces down
from his coach, my mouth fell open.

“He’s not starting? Why isn’t he starting?”

Bridge shrugged. She didn’t have to ask who
he
was. “Maybe he sucks at basketball.”

I shook my head in instant denial because no way did that
seem possible. He looked, and smiled, and laughed too perfectly to be anything
other than a perfect athlete as well. But as a referee tossed the ball in the
air and the game began, Ryder Yates remained on the bench. One of his teammates
jumped up and swatted the ball to another teammate. Southeast passed down
court, and two tosses later, they made a basket. All within the first four
seconds of the game.

Bridget groaned. “We’re going to get massacred.”

“He’s not starting,” was all I could utter.

“Well, if he’s that sucky of a player, then I really wish he
would start. How am I supposed to get any good pictures if we’re going to get
beaten to a bloody pulp?”

I blinked at my friend. “He doesn’t suck.” I’m not sure why
I sounded so defensive. As far as I knew, Ryder Yates was the worst player to
join a basketball team.

Bridget glanced at me, her eyebrows crinkling to let me know
how insane she found my statement. “If he doesn’t suck, then why’d you tell him
you weren’t interested?”

I sputtered, unable to believe she didn’t already understand
my position. Finally, I was able to form actual words. “Well…well…what would
you
 
say if Zac Efron walked up to you right now
and asked you out?” I knew her fascination with the movie star, so I used him
as an example.

Bridget snorted. “I’d ask him to hold on a second before I
dropped to my knees and thanked the Lord for answering my prayers.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Never mind.”

She didn’t get it. But, honestly, what were the chances of
Zac Efron leaving Hollywood,
or wherever he was from, and appearing in our school? I hadn’t asked her a
realistic hypothetical question. What had happened to me with Ryder Yates was
real—way too real—so in my opinion, I was justifiably freaked out to the point
of telling him I wasn’t interested and then running off. My reaction mortified
me, true, but I still felt warranted in what I’d done.