Page 24 of The Assist
That’s a lie, but I’m not about to show any more weakness in front of this guy.
Without taking his eyes from mine, he raises the ball over my head and shoots. The sound of the ball swishing through the net is the only indication it went in. That, and the swagger and cocky athleticism that ooze from him as he retrieves the ball.
And so it goes. I take shot after shot, taking my time and concentrating like I haven’t since the SATs, and then he makes the shot while watching me. It’s infuriating. And seriously hot.
When I miss, he takes over, picking spots all over the court and moving back a foot each time. Miraculously, I manage to capitalize twice, and we’re tied, both having P-I.
“Only one more letter.”
“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.” Lining up at the free throw line, I turn away from the basket and hold the ball with two hands. I hear him snicker, but I keep focused on the shot. Trying not to overthink it, I toss it up and over my head and then crane my neck around to watch as it rattles through the net.
“You got trick shots,” he says, sounding more impressed than anything.
“Trick shots? Does it somehow count less this way?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “Fair enough.”
He lines up in my spot, peeking over his shoulder once before facing away from the basket and tossing the ball up into the air. The ball hits the front of the rim and bounces back to him.
“Yes! I did it! I beat the conference assist leader.”
“Seems you do know my stats.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I might have looked you up. I won! I won!”
“You got lucky. I demand a re-match.”
“Nope. I won fair and square.” I walk off, grabbing my purse and phone from where I left them.
“You’re leaving?”
“I know when it’s time to walk away. Tomorrow at two work?”
I don’t look back, but I can feel him smiling after me. “See ya then, baller.”
8
Wes
“All right,the probability of success remains constant for all trials. In other words, the probability of me making a shot is always fifty percent no matter how many times I shoot.”
The words fall out of my mouth without thinking, which is good because all I can concentrate on is how fucking adorable she looks as she lines up at the free-throw line in her short shorts and Valley T-shirt. Eyes focused on the hoop, she dribbles three times and then pauses with the ball up to her face before shooting. Fucking adorable.
And I’m not the only one who is taken with Blair. The whole team is here, hanging on Sunday afternoon, and she won them all over the minute she waltzed in with paper bags. It looks like she wiped out their entire pastry counter, but she waved off any notion that it was a big deal as she’d tossed the bags onto the counter with no need or want for thanks or acknowledgment. The gesture gained her both.
It isn’t just the food, though. Only two type of girls come over to hang at the house. Type one is the ball honeys who have only one objective—landing a basketball player. Those girls are tossed around and become frequents lounging in the house at all hours willing and ready to be used for the bragging rights that she landed a ball player. I stay far, far, like outer space far away from those girls. The second type is girlfriends and those are far and few between. Zeke’s made it very clear he isn’t dating until he’s signed an NBA contract. Nathan parties too much for any girl to take him seriously, and Joel refuses second dates like he’s afraid it binds him contractually to marriage and kids.
But Blair isn’t either of those things. She isn’t settled down with any of the guys, and she most definitely isn’t a ball honey. Right now, though, she looks like a cross between the two—hotter than both but taking the best of each. Being all domestic and feeding and taking care of us but looking too hot to be in a relationship. No sane dude would let his girlfriend wear what she has on right now in a house full of other guys.
Joel and Z shoot around us. Joel pipes up when he thinks of something to add. He’s smarter than people give him credit for. He just doesn’t like to make a big show of it. Z stays quiet like he always does, but he’s listening. He’s always listening.
“Sounds like you have it down,” I say reluctantly. As much as I didn’t want to tutor her, I’m clinging to our time together. What I feel borders on disappointment that it’s over so soon. “How about a rematch?”
“PIG again? You sure you want me to embarrass you in front of the guys?”
My teammates have trickled in from around the house and the pool and mill about, but they don’t intrude, just linger on the sidelines watching.
“Nah, one on one. First to three points. I’m at a distinct disadvantage here with the boot and all.”
