This is a story that I've been wanting to write for a while now and I'm just now getting around to it now that school is winding down. I've posted this story on other boards, under a different name, and people seem to enjoy it. Just to warn you, this story is going to have a full plate of angst and will deal with the topic of death. It won't be anything graphic, but its just a warning.

Anyway...please read and tell me what you think!

Chapter 1
Everytime I Look For You

"Score one for me."

He didn't dare look back, he knew better than that by now. He knew his father was watching his every move. Just waiting in the stands to catch a slipup. So he dribbles in response, bouncing the ball against the floor once to acknowledge her presence.

He'll add hers to the twenty-four his father demanded. She gives a hushed 'good luck' before continuing on her way, the terse conversation between the two hopefully unnoticed.

He glances at the clock. Just two minutes until he has to be perfect. Taking one last shot, the ball sails through effortlessly. He jogs to retrieve it, daring to face the crowd that expects nothing but his best.

She's in the stands, sitting next to his Uncle, talking a mile-per-minute. As he grabs the ball, his father watches. Whitey calls them in; one minute till game time.

"It's your game son."

He jogs past the blonde boy, his 'brother', catching the parting words of his mother. He's heard the words countless times before, but his heart aches. There's no venom in her voice, no underlying threat. The words are simply a well wishing from a loving mother to her son. When she says 'son' it's a term of endearment, not one of ownership.

He barely hears the speech given by his coach. He's heard it already anyway. His heart is already pounding in his chest from the pure anxiety and unadulterated adrenaline coursing through his blood. His fingers itch to get a hold of the ball and his legs are getting restless. It's almost a primal instinct to play the game that stems from somewhere deep inside him.

The buzzer sounds. Tip-off comes and goes and he's passed the ball. He can feel the heat of his father's gaze on him but he shrugs it off. He easily shakes his guarder, slamming the ball through the hoop.

One down. Twenty-two more to go.

The second and third periods pass quickly and he's on a roll. He slams in his last shot, tripping the defender over his own feet. He can finally enjoy the game now. The seconds are ticking down in the fourth though, and his team is still down by four.

The crowd erupts as the blonde rakes in another basket on a fade away. His coach calls the last timeout. Quickly jogging to the sideline, he takes a swig of his bottle of water and scans the crowd.

Her lip is tucked securely between her teeth and she's bouncing on the edge of her seat. She's glancing nervously between the scoreboard and the clock and he can tell she's worried.

She meets eyes with the blonde a guy over from him and gives a small smile accompanied with a wave. He probably thinks she's concerned with the game. And in a way she is. But he knows the concern is for him. He knows that she knows what will happen if they lose it.

They both know.

He lets his eyes drift toward his father, who, as he suspected, is staring daggers into him. Even from his spot on the court he can see the bloodless knuckles that clutch the program harshly. He's seething.

After a team-pepping chant from the cheerleaders and a 'hands-in' from his best friend, they take the court again. He wipes the dust from his sneakers and waits. The blonde passes it in, finding a teammate.

With barely fifteen seconds left, he finds himself with the ball. This is what it's all come down to. He dribbles it between his legs, behind his back. The defender is struggling, but he's not giving up.

The clock ticks down, the sound deafening to his ears. The whole crowd is on their feet now, cheering. But he doesn't hear them. He hears the ball, and the harshness of his breath. And the clock that's down to ten seconds.

The sweat on his face is blurring his vision and he blinks it away rapidly. It's now or never he supposes. He thinks about drilling it in for two and forcing overtime. But his body is exhausted and he'd rather end it all now.

He dribbles once, twice. Locking eyes with her, he points, his long finger finding her in the otherwise faceless crowd as if to say it's for them. The crowd goes wild, stomping and cheering.

He fakes left. Spins right. He dribbles once, acknowledging her presence. With just over three seconds left, his feet leave the ground. At two seconds he brings the ball up. And with one second left, he lets it go. The buzzer rings.

The whole gym watches in avid attention as the ball cuts through the air. They watch together as it drops in the net. They win by one. Before the ball can even hit the ground, he's hoisted into the air.

The crowd erupts and he finds her smiling eyes boring into his through the mass of people flooding the court. It's not said, but she knows. He scored one for her. When he's finally put down, the fans swarm him.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't relish it. The 'you were greats' and 'way to goes'. It's just about the only time he gets commended. It almost makes the pressure and stress of the game worth it. Almost.

He'd love nothing more than to pull her into his arms. And he's sure that she wouldn't mind it either. But they both know it's not an option right now. Not here.

So instead he makes small talk with a few of his buddies, making promises of celebrating and partying, until the crowd slowly dwindles and there's only a handful of people left in the gym. He spots the blonde in the corner, talking to his mother and their Uncle.

And she's there too, waving her arms energetically and recreating some story. They all share a laugh and for a second his feet want to carry him over there. But he knows he's not welcome so he turns for the locker room instead.

When he's fully washed the sweat and nausea of the game away, he towels off and pulls on a pair of slacks. As he buttons up his dress shirt, the door bangs open and the blonde enters.

A silent nod passes between the two. He rolls up his sleeves, knowing that leaving them down will soon overheat his body. The tie dangles loosely around his neck as he pulls his bag onto his shoulder.

"Scott."

He stops at the voice of his coach. Him and the blonde turn and he's reminded of another thing the blonde has of his. Slowly spinning, he finds that Whitey is addressing both of them.

"Yeah Coach?" They respond.

"Good game tonight." With a nod from both, he disappears back in his office. Most likely to celebrate another win with a fine liquor and his thoughts, he supposes.

A frantic debate sparks in his mind as the two boys are left alone in the locker room. He weighs the pros and cons and finds one defining reason. Casting his gaze over his shoulder he bows his head.

"Good game Lucas."

The blonde is clearly startled but is courteous enough to return his own praise. With that he leaves, ready to face the judge. He's waiting of course, ready to pounce.

So he keeps his eyes focused on his sneakers as the onslaught comes. He's slow. He's weak. His jump shot sucks. He gave up the ball five times. He missed six baskets. The criticism pours right out of his father.

He knows that tomorrow will surely hold a three-hour training session, but right now is mind is elsewhere. Tomorrow he'll pay, but tonight is his. So he lets his father finish his rant. When he's done, he leaves wordlessly, leaving his son standing in the middle of the gym.

"You were great Luke!"

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle as she praises him. He replies modestly, giving credit to their coach and team. She assures him they he played wonderfully.

Stopping near the door, concealed in the shadows, he waits for her. He nods and she nods back. The interaction goes unnoticed by Lucas. He slips out the door and waits in his car.

"You sure you don't need a ride?"

"Yep. I'm sure." She nods, eager to find his truck and slip off into the night. He wraps her into a hug, drops a kiss onto her forehead and smiles. "See you tomorrow buddy."

He watches as Lucas takes off one way and she heads directly for him. His heart is pounding again, albeit for an entirely different reason. She checks one more time to make sure there are no lingering witnesses before sliding into the passenger seat.

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He lets her out, doubling back and parking a few houses down. After the last close call, he's learned not to park in the vicinity. Eyes shifting warily, he creeps up her drive way and through the front door.

"Nathan Scott! Don't you dare try to dodge me!" Lydia James catches the teen halfway up the stairs. She crooks her finger at him, pulling him back into the downstairs.

"I wasn't Mrs. James. Swear." He greets as he's pulled into a hug. "I was looking for Haley."

"Well she's in the kitchen with her father. Probably reliving the game." She pulls him into the living room and forces him to a chair. He can't help but marvel at how at ease she makes him feel. "I hear you won. Good job."

"Thanks." For some reason he finds himself ducking his head. The sincerity behind her words heats his cheeks and mars them red. When she compliments him, she means it. And he's not used to it.

"Well, I won't keep you any longer." She clasps his shoulder and grins down at him. "Bub! Nathan's here!"

Within the minute the five-foot two ball of energy is bouncing through the kitchen door and yanking him up the stairs. He waves a goodbye to her mother and a hello to her father before they're out of sight.

As soon as the door is closed, she's on him. Her arms wrap around his neck, pulling him down so she can slant her lips over his. Keeping his lips against hers, he shrugs his bag from his shoulder and toes off his shoes.

When she's pressed for air, Haley finally pulls back. "You were amazing!" She whispers huskily, her voice starved for air. The tone and breathlessness of her voice sends a spark down his body, jolting him to life. He holds his groan in, stopping himself from pinning her to the wall and assaulting her.

"Yeah, I guess." He acquiesces, taking a seat on her bed. When she doesn't make a move to sit with him, he reaches for her hand. She lets him have it and he runs his thumb across her knuckles. "I was a little slow on defense though. And I missed a few easy rebounds."

"Yeah well, you looked damned sexy doing it." She grins, instantly heating at her own words. He smiles back, gently tugging on her hand. She takes the hint and closes the gap between them, straddling his legs. "You blew all of those other guys out of the water."

His fingers clamp into her waist, holding her tightly. He stares up languidly with hooded eyes. He lets his eyes flutter shut as her fingers comb through his hair. "Thank-you." He mumbles.

"You're welcome."

Gently taking his chin in her hands, she tilts his head up to her. She runs her thumb across his cheek, the five o'clock shadow tickling her skin. She nibbles lightly on his lower lip, soothing it over before repeating it.

"Hales."

She moves down slowly, kissing a path from his jaw to his Adam's apple. She sucks it in, drawing a moan from him. His chest heaves, pressing against hers, to take in some much needed air. Her fingers grasp the material of his tie and slip it over his head, tossing it somewhere in the corner.

"Haley." He manages again, this time the intent working. She pauses her ministrations. His hands ghost up her sides, holding her face between his hands. His eyes study her features, taking note of every inch of her skin.

He tucks an errant hair behind her ear and is instantly rewarded with more of her face. Her hands are still moving though, running along his chest and abs as she pulls loose the buttons of his shirt.

He gently frees her lip from the grasp of her teeth. "What?" She wonders out loud, suddenly finding herself very self-conscious under his intense gaze. His eyes are now wandering the expanse of her frame, taking in every delicious curve and crevice.

He shakes his head, not quite believing reality. How was he so lucky as to have her? "Nothing." He assures. He presses his lips against hers again. His fingers tangle in her hair, holding her lips to his.

They break briefly to allow the removal of his undershirt. His silver chain hangs loosely around his neck; the small Cross nestled against his toned and bronzed chest. In a single fluid motion, he has her against the bed, his large frame hovering over her smaller one.

The events of the earlier hours are gone from his head and his attention is focused on her. No longer are basketball and his father the center of his world. All that matters now is her, and him, and them together.

Good? Bad? Let me know.