Page 40 of Between Love and War
I’ve always wanted to say that—to my mom, my coworkers, the entire town of Magnolia Heights. But it’s never come out this easy. Somehow, with Michael… it does.
“I’m literally coaching you.”
“Still.”
He smirks, clearly enjoying this. “Fine. Do it wrong.”
I bend my knees, hold the ball awkwardly, and shoot. It ricochets off the rim and bounces halfway across the court.
“Solid form,” he deadpans, as he jogs to retrieve the ball. “Okay, okay. Try again. This time, will you listen to me?”
“Fine.”
“That’s the spirit,” he says. He steps behind me, guiding my elbows with gentle taps. “Here. Like this.”
I freeze. It’s casual. Very casual. We’re barely touching.
Until he moves.
His arm extends past mine, slow and unhurried. I watch it happen in excruciating detail: the long line of his forearmbrushing close, the veins shifting under his skin, the way his hand—big, steady, unshakable—slides over the ball. And then over me.
His palm curves over my fingers, coaxing them into place, his thumb brushing the side of my knuckle. My whole hand disappears beneath his, swallowed up.
Heat surges through me so fast I forget how to breathe. I forget how to stand. I forget how to function.
“Relax,” he says softly. “It’s just basketball.” He thinks it’s basketball nerves.
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. “You’re good at it.”
“Everyone starts somewhere.” He steps back. “Shoot.”
I toss the ball. It bounces off the backboard, swirls around the rim… and drops in.
My mouth falls open. “Oh my God.”
Michael claps like I’ve just won an Olympic medal. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a prodigy!”
I quickly look behind me and say “Shh!” only to realize he’s still inches from me, and I just slammed onto his chest.
“Whoa,” he laughs, steadying me with one hand on my shoulder. “Careful there, rookie.”
My face is on fire. “You–you were standing too close!” I take a step back.
“You have zero awareness and the reflexes of a turtle.”
I gape at him. “But it’s fine,” he adds. “Happens all the time. People run into me constantly.”
“Because you block their way.”
“Or,” he says, smirk widening, “maybe people are just drawn to me.”
I glare at him. “Oh my God. I hate you.” I don’t.
He leans in just enough to cross my personal space and set off every alarm bell in my body. “If this is how you hate me,Katie,” he says, voice low and teasing, “then I hope you hate me more often.”
“Well, I hope–” I stop and I blink. Because that’s all my brain can manage. Thankfully (or mortifyingly) I don’t have to think of what to say, because the balcony light of the house next door flickers on.
Someone steps out. Actually, three people do—Julia (Manong Jose’s daughter), Lila (Emily’s sister), and Ingrid (the sleepover host). Great. Just what this moment needs. Witnesses in the form of screaming teenage girls.
