Chapter 11: Us, in the Open
Coming back to Crestmore was like walking into a spotlight I never asked for.
Except this time, I wasn't walking alone.
Jace held my hand as we stepped through the front gates, his fingers laced with mine like it had always been this way. Like I hadn't been humiliated, expelled, and quietly erased from these halls just a week before.
But people remembered.
They stared.
Some whispered. Some pointed. A few even smiled, and I couldn't tell if it was kindness or curiosity. I didn't ask.
All I could focus on was his hand. Warm. Real. Unshaken.
He didn't flinch. Didn't waver. Just walked with me past every whisper and every phone camera like he belonged there—and so did I.
I didn't speak until we reached the stairwell.
"Why does it feel like I'm dreaming?" I whispered.
Jace smiled sideways. "If this is a dream, I'm not waking up."
That afternoon, we had our first quiet rooftop moment since everything had blown up.
We sat with our backs against the wall, legs stretched out, shoulders barely touching.
Below us, the school buzzed. Laughter and sneakers on pavement, the faint thump of a basketball hitting court.
"Do you miss it?" I asked.
"Miss what?"
"Before all this. Before me."
He looked at me. Serious. "Not for a second."
I laughed softly, more from disbelief than joy. "Even with the chaos?"
"Especially with the chaos," he said. "Before you, everything was predictable. Polished. Boring. Now it feels... alive."
I didn't know how to respond to that. So I leaned into him.
And for a moment, the world faded.
The next day, Crestmore was buzzing for a different reason: the regional basketball game.
Jace was the starting point guard. The heart of the team.
The gym was packed. Students, parents, rival fans. The whole school felt like it was vibrating with tension.
I sat near the front row with Nina, who handed me a Crestmore hoodie that was three sizes too big.
"Jace gave it to me," she said. "Said it'd bring him luck if you wore it."
I slipped it on.
He glanced toward the stands during warm-ups. Our eyes met. He smiled.
My heart fluttered.
The game was chaos.
Fast breaks, full-court presses, elbows and sweat and shouts. Jace moved like water—fluid, fast, focused.
At halftime, the score was tied.
As he passed by, he brushed his fingers against mine. No one saw. But I felt it everywhere.
Then came the moment.
Fourth quarter. Final minute.
Tie game.
Crestmore had the ball. Jace dribbled past two defenders, spun at the key, jumped, and released.
The buzzer sounded.
Swish.
The gym exploded.
Students screamed. People jumped. I stood there, hands over my mouth, as the team rushed the court.
But Jace didn't run with them.
He ran toward me.
And without hesitation, he grabbed my hand, pulled me onto the court, and spun me straight into his arms.
Someone yelled, "They're so in love!"
And then he kissed me.
It wasn't long. Just enough.
Enough for the gym to lose it.
Enough for the moment to burn itself into every camera.
Enough for me to know—
We weren't hiding anymore.
That night, I sat in bed wearing the oversized hoodie, my fingers tracing the stitched Crestmore logo.
I opened Crestnet.
The top video: "Crestmore's final shot + final kiss!"
I watched it twice.
And then I watched it again.
Not for the kiss.
Not even for the win.
But because, for the first time since everything started...
I saw a version of myself I didn't recognize.
Confident. Chosen. Loved.
And I liked her.
Here's the continuation of Chapter 11, bringing it to a full 2,000+ words. This extended scene adds a quiet, personal post-game moment between Elena and Jace — deepening their emotional bond beyond the kiss.
The next morning, Crestnet was still on fire.
Nina sent me a screenshot of the top trending comment:
"That kiss had more chemistry than our entire chem class."
Another one read:
"Jace Anderson doesn't just win games — he wins hearts."
I buried my face in my pillow.
Everything was surreal. Overwhelming. Beautiful.
But somehow, it wasn't until later that day — when the noise died down — that it really hit me.
Jace found me in the art room.
It was empty, the air faintly smelling of acrylic and charcoal. I was alone, sketching him. Again. This time it was from memory — the moment he turned after making the shot, searching the crowd until he found me.
He walked in quietly, holding two milk teas.
"You didn't answer my text," he said.
"I didn't know what to say."
He set the drinks down. "You could've said, 'Hey, thanks for the most dramatic moment of my entire high school career.'"
I gave him a half-smile. "It was... a lot."
"Too much?"
"No. Just... new."
He sat beside me. "You okay?"
"I think so. I'm still getting used to people actually liking me."
He tilted his head. "I didn't kiss you so people would like you."
"I know."
He looked at my sketchbook, quiet for a moment. Then, softly, "Is that me?"
"Don't get cocky."
He smiled, then reached over and ran his fingers down the edge of the page — not the drawing, just the paper. "I missed this. You. When you're quiet, but not because you're sad."
I looked up at him.
"I'm sorry again," he said. "For everything."
"You already said it."
"I want to keep saying it until you believe I mean it."
"I do."
He leaned in, forehead brushing mine again. "Good."
Later, we sat on the rooftop again. No big confessions. No storm clouds. Just the wind, the city skyline, and the strange feeling that the world, for once, was giving us space.
I turned to him.
"Do you think this will last?"
He didn't pretend to misunderstand.
He just nodded once. "Yeah. I do."
I let myself believe it.
And that night, when I lay in bed and replayed the kiss — not the one on camera, but the one under a blue sky on a roof above it all — I realized something I hadn't before.
This wasn't just a chapter in my story.
This was the part where I started writing it for myself.