Page 11 of Anatomy of a Meet Cute
“Sure looks like it,” Sam grumbled.
Grant snorted a laugh, an odd sound for someone who looked like the TV version of a doctor. It was just dorky enough to make him seem approachable. “I guess you’re right. I should have figured it was you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re like six feet tall. I should’ve asked you to join our team first.”
“I’m five foot eight.”
“You’re as tall as I am,” Grant needled.
Sam threw him a sideways look and got into ready position, holding her response until the ref bent his knees to release the ball. “Then you’re not six feet tall. It’s okay. Men lie about their height all the time.”
Grant took his eyes off the ball to look at her, incredulous, and Sam took off. She snatched the ball out of the air and locked it. Then she grinned at Grant, who was just realizing that she’d timed the perfect distraction. Shaking his head, he laughed it off and jogged down the court with the rest of the players.
Sam began a lazy dribble down the court, scanning the faces of her teammates. Sure, she needed to crush Grant, but she also needed to do it with style. No need to let her competitive streak get the best of her in front of her new coworkers.
Theo shoved off his defender and swung up the wing to signal that he was open. Sam read the movement but didn’t pass. Grant had stationed himself at the top of the key, hanging back with the smirk still firmly attached to his face. He looked relaxed, but the move was calculated. He would step in to fill the gap in defense if she was foolish enough to pass to Theo. No. It was better to draw Grant out of the swing spot. Crossing over, Sam took two steps to the right, forcing Grant to shift toward her as she dribbled, careful to keep herself out of arm’s reach.
“Little slow at tip-off.” Sam mumbled the words in Grant’s direction. As a rule, she wasn’t much of a trash-talker, but this was too goodto pass up. Besides, her brother was a mediocre player but a professional shit-talker. Surely that was a genetic trait she could call on in times of desperation.
“Trying to distract me?” Grant’s smile spread as he sank lower into a defense stance, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he followed her across the floor. “It’s not gonna work.”
“I think it already did.” Sam smiled as her eyes flicked toward the basket while Duke cut across the key, his hand up to signal that he was open. Twisting around, she bounce passed the ball under her arm and back to Theo, who managed to catch it. Grant rotated around just in time to watch Theo lob the ball over to Duke for an easy layup.
“Good pass, Sam,” Kyle shouted from the bench.
“Ah. Lucky play,” Grant said over his shoulder as he jogged toward the sidelines to throw the ball in.
“Get ready. You’re gonna watch me get luckyall night.” Sam punctuated the last two words, letting her neck work for extra emphasis. She laughed as she jogged down the court.
Sinking into a self-satisfied defensive stance, Sam glanced over her shoulder quickly to read the court. Duke appeared to be chatting affably with Kelly, and Sam felt the urge to clap at him and yellFocus. Unless small talk was his form of defense, Duke’s chitchat was going to allow the Flyers to score.
The sounds of a basketball hitting the wood close to her brought Sam back to attention. She looked up just in time to catch Grant grinning at her. He bounced the ball through his legs to avoid Sam’s reach. “Get lucky all night?” he asked, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow.
“Yup.” Sam maintained her smile. Grant’s movements were precise but unhurried. He could try to wait her out, but she refused to lose focus. She sank her hips deeper into her stance and shifted her weight toward her toes so she could be ready to move.
“You are terrible at trash-talking.” Grant’s dark eyes scanned the court.
“I thought that was pretty good,” Sam said, scowling.
“It sounded less like trash and more like B movie dirty talk.” Grant’s smile lines deepened as he laughed, the sound mingling with the thump-thump of his dribble. “Are you gonna break out a riding crop and a feather duster next?”
Images of Grant in a leather halter, body glistening with oil and cracking a riding crop, flooded Sam’s imagination. It wasn’t a fantasy she’d known she had, but on him it was hot. He probably used flavored oil, too, but not the gross kind that tasted like chemicals. Given his attention to detail, he’d absolutely buy the good stuff for whatever he was going to do to her—
Not that he was going to do anything to her. Sam gave her head a little shake, trying to brush off the sizzling mental picture. Grant’s nose wrinkled with his mischievous smile, and Sam recognized the distraction just a fraction of a second too late as he stopped short and lobbed the ball over her head. The woman Duke had been chatting with caught it and got an easy shot off, tying the game at 2–2.
Sam turned around just in time to watch Grant backpedal down the court. Making eye contact with her, he called, “Lucky. All. Night,” his tone closer to a phone sex operator’s than an NBA trash-talker’s.
Sam waved him off and turned to retrieve the ball as a smile crept across her face. She was not going to be seen laughing at her nemesis if she could help it. No matter how well he mimicked rap-video vixens of the early nineties. If that was how Grant wanted to play, he would have to deal with the burners. Crossing the half-court line, Sam let herself get close to Grant at the top of the key. Keeping her dribble low, she leaned forward and felt the front of her baggy tank top peel away from her skin, and she said, “Okay, so my trash talk is a little rusty. But my game ain’t.”
Sam popped up out of the dribble with surgical accuracy and fired a three. If LeBron James himself had staged this play, he could not have managed a better shot. The ball rotated perfectly in the air, the spinningWilson logo winking at her. The entire court stopped moving to follow the ball as it rocketed toward the basket with the cleanest swish Sam had ever sunk.
“Oh!” Duke yelled, holding a fist up to his mouth and rocking back and forth. “Told ya. You don’t even need me.”
From the bleachers, Evan popped up and started clapping and nodding like the revered coach Pat Summitt following a close game in a D1 playoff.
Grant’s jaw dropped as the ball bounced off the padded wall, waiting for someone to retrieve it. Eventually, he turned back to face her, surprise still scrawled across his face.
