DICKWAD

"Wooo!" I yell, my fists thrown to the sky. "Nice block, 33! Look left, he's open — Number 14 is open! Ohmigod, he's open are you blind?"

Ralph glares at me out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge my screams. Apparently, I'm making it hard to hear whoever he's chatting with.

Oh, did I mention he's still on the phone?

But that's okay. I'm not letting him get me down. I'm having a hell of a good time all by myself, thank you very much.

The four beers I've consumed are helping.

In fact, I've discovered I kind of like basketball. It's exciting — especially when you're so freaking close to the action. Since it's a playoff game, every seat in the arena is full, and with each basket Boston makes, everyone in the stands behind me roars so loud the floor vibrates. Despite the snarky side-eye Ralph keeps throwing my way, I roar right along with them.

I'm going to have fun tonight, dammit. I have to. Because if I don't keep smiling, I'll surely cry about the fact that as soon as that final buzzer rings, my one, pathetic attempt at a relationship is officially, 100% over. Four whole months wasted on a mediocre guy who won't even make eye contact with me half the time — frankly, it makes me want to weep. And Gemma Summers being reduced to tears by a man-child named Ralph is just too pathetic to contemplate.

"Nice play, 14! Shoot! Shoot!" I'm on the edge of my seat, hands curled into fists. "YES!" I scream, leaping to my feet when the player sinks the basket.

Because I'm fully absorbed in the game (the rules of which I still don't fully understand — I mean, come on, the ref blows that damn whistle every ten seconds) I don't realize that Ralph isn't the only one taking notice of my enthusiastic cheering. In fact, I'm so wrapped up, I haven't given more than a fleeting thought to the tall-drink-of-water who took the seat on my other side just after the game got underway — besides to mentally note that I'd never seen a simple jeans-and-tee combo look so good on anyone who wasn't an Abercrombie poster boy. But that was over an hour ago, at the start of the game.

Now, it's nearly over.

I sit back down, smoothing the satin of my dress over my thighs and crossing one Converse-clad foot over the other. The last thing I want is to flash my hoo-hah on national television. My mother would be mortified — not that she'd ever, in a million years, watch a basketball game... but it's about the principle of the thing.

My ass has settled on the seat for less than a second when I hear a deep, masculine voice from my left.

"Miss, you dropped this."

Startled, I practically jump out of my skin when a big, calloused hand reaches toward me, my ancient cellphone — with its cracked screen and ridiculous, sparkly-blue case — clutched between two fingers. My wide eyes fly up to meet his steady green ones, and I'm suddenly having a difficult time breathing.

Short crop of dark-blond hair.

Thick, black lashes any girl would kill for.

Chiseled everything — jaw, nose, cheekbones, forehead.

I didn't even know a forehead could be chiseled, until I saw this guy.

I'm staring — I know I'm staring — but I can't seem to stop, even after my fingers reach out and retrieve my cellphone from his grasp. He's model-worthy gorgeous. Seriously drool-inducing. I have to fight the urge to reach up and check that I haven't started salivating like a Saint Bernard, especially when his eyes scan my face, then drop to my neckline in a sharp, shameless sweep.

"Hi," I blurt, like the total moron I am.

"Hi," he echoes, his lips twisting in an amused grin.

"You come here often?" I jerk my thumb in the general direction of the court, my eyes still glued to his face. "'Cause, you know, I don't. It's my first time here, in case you were wondering. Not that you looked like you were – wondering, that is." I gulp, hoping it might stop my rambles. "But this is kind of awesome. Way better than I was expecting. Not that I really knew what to expect, but...yeah. I'm going to stop talking, now."

He looks at me a little quizzically, like he's not quite sure what to make of me, but then a laugh slips from his lips — a full-bodied belly laugh, the kind that makes his eyes close and his shoulders shake. Just hearing it makes me want to laugh too, but I'm so transfixed watching him, I can't do anything remotely normal.

When his laughter tapers off into quiet chuckles, his eyes reopen and suddenly he's looking at me again, kind of like he's waiting for something, so I just say, "You've got a great laugh," and watch his smile twitch wider.

"Thanks," he replies, his voice rockier than the Grand Freaking Canyon and twice as deep.

We're staring at each other, neither of us saying anything, when the crowd goes crazy. My attention snaps back to the game, just in time to see a Celtics player sink a three-pointer from what seems like an impossible distance. Forgetting the fact that I'm wearing an altogether too-skimpy dress, I'm instantly back on my feet, jumping up and down like a little kid and screaming at the top of my lungs. I think I hear Green Eyes laughing again but I can't be sure over the din of the arena. I'm about to turn and check when a hand clamps over my right elbow and jerks me roughly back down into my seat.

I whimper a little when my tailbone slams against the chair, knocking the breath from my lungs and the wind from my sails faster than a pincushion popping a balloon.

"What the hell?" I squeak, my outraged eyes flying in Ralph's direction. His hand is still clamped on my arm like a vise — it's starting to ache.

"Have a little class, Gemma," he growls, his expression disdainful as he looks me up and down. "You're practically popping out of your dress."

I try to shake off his grip, but it's too tight. "Let go of me, asshole! You're hurting my arm."

He releases me with a disgusted shake of his head, then returns to his phone call. I watch as he wipes his palm against his pant leg, as though he has to rub off all traces of where my skin touched his, and I bite my lip so I won't cry.

How the hell did I end up here, with this jerk?

I don't need to look far for an answer. I know exactly how this happened.

Because I thought it was me. I thought I was the reason I was still single. That the flighty, kooky, quirky mess that is Gemma Summers was the reason no men in my life ever stuck around, or were worth sticking around for.

Now, I see I was wrong.

It's not me — it's them.

The truth is, all men are rat bastards. My father, the boys in third grade who blew spitballs into my hair, my ex-boyfriends — if you can even call them that — and now Ralph, who I've officially christened Rat Bastard Numero Uno.

The Rat Bastard to End All Rat Bastards.

And most certainly the last rat bastard I'll be wasting my time on. After the final buzzer, I'm officially giving up men, buying several vibrators, and joining a convent.

Actually, I'm pretty sure those last two things are mutually exclusive, so...

Just the vibrators, then.

I want to get up and leave, but the game is almost over and I know I'll never have seats like this again for the rest of my life. So, I cross my arms over my chest, the fingers of my left hand gently massaging feeling back into the flesh of my right arm where Ralph grabbed me, and angle my body away from him as much as possible.

Unfortunately, this means I'm seriously encroaching on Green Eyes' space — my knees are practically bumping his thigh. Five minutes ago, this would've been fine — more than fine — but now, there's the small fact that I've just given up men for the rest of eternity and, besides, after what Ralph just did, I'm so angry and embarrassed, I can't meet anyone's gaze, especially not when they look like they might be part of the Hemsworth brothers' gene pool. My skittish eyes flit over his gorgeous, narrowed ones for less than a second before I turn my face straight ahead and resolve not to look at either of the men on my sides for the rest of the game.

It's a good plan.

A great plan.

It totally would've worked, too — if not for something I'd never even factored in as a possibility. Because at the start of fourth period, during a quick break in the action, the massive jumbotron at center-court starts to flash with images of couples in the crowd. And those couples, cheered on by thousands of people inside the stadium, begin to kiss.

It's so cute I actually forget about my dickwad boyfriend — soon to be ex-boyfriend — and start smiling again.

Well, until the camera swings down to the courtside section and lands on me.

Me and my dickwad soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend.

Dammit. I totally should've left when I had the chance.