Like he’d missed so much?
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Sam asks Charlie. “The last time we played one-on-one, you didn’t like the outcome.”
Charlie flushes, splotches of color on his cheeks, and shoots me a glance before scowling at Sam. “You only spotted me five points,” he mutters, sounding like a little kid—whiny and bratty because he didn’t win. Hooray! Puberty hasn’t fully gotten its clutches in him yet. “You could give me ten this time.”
Sam, all six feet plus of natural athleticism, competitive edge and basketball talent, nods. He could spot Charlie twenty points and still beat the kid to twenty-one. “I could do that, but Hadley’s here. Which I’m sure you noticed even though you haven’t said hello to her yet.”
Charlie’s blush intensifies at his brother’s not-so-subtle admonishment and I feel bad for him, being embarrassed by Sam twice in under a minute.
“I didn’t say hello to him, either,” I point out before turning to Charlie and holding out my hand. “Hello, Charles. Good to see you again.”
One side of his mouth lifts, his brown eyes lit with humor, and he looks so much like Sam I wish I could take a marker and write DANGER on his forehead, just to give all the girls his age a heads-up about what’s to come.
“Hello, Hadley,” he says, mimicking my solemn tone as he shakes my hand, pumping it up and down three times before letting go. “Okay, we said hello,” Charlie tells Sam. He bounces the ball once. “Let’s go.”
“Hadley doesn’t want to sit around and watch us play basketball.”
Charlie looks so disappointed, I step over to stand next to him. “How about a game of two against one?” At Charlie’s confused look, I explain, “You and me against Sam.”
He stares at me like I’ve offered to slice Sam’s chest open and share his organs for dinner. “Uh, do you even know how to shoot a basketball?”
“I’m sure I could figure it out,” I say with a shrug. “You just throw it.” I pretend to hold a ball in both hands and jump awkwardly while pushing my arms straight out from my body. “Like that. Right?”
Poor Charlie. He goes from beet red to snow white.
“Can she be on your team?” he asks Sam hopefully.
“Any time,” Sam tells him, but his eyes are on mine, and really, that husky tone, full of innuendo, is not appropriate around children.
I roll my eyes at him and his lame attempt at turning an innocent comment into something sexual.
His grin widens and he wiggles his eyebrows.
Doofus.
“If she’s on my team,” Charlie says, oblivious to anything other than trying to beat his brother, “then we get fifteen points.”
Sam sets down the cooler. “Ha. No.”
“Fourteen,” Charlie says then, when Sam doesn’t respond, “Thirteen.”
“You’re not doing much for my confidence,” I tell Charlie as I untie my boots. I blink up at him, trying to look wounded. “Don’t you want to be teammates?”
Instead of answering, he shrugs, which, let’s be honest, is answer enough. He turns back to Sam. “Ten points.
“Shoes off,” Sam tells him, tucking his socks into his boots then taking the ball from Charlie.
Charlie toes off his sneakers then hops on one foot to tug off his sock, switches sides and repeats the motion.
“Playing to twenty-one,” Sam says, dribbling as we make our way to the court. “Half-court. And since it’s two against one, I’m not spotting you any points.”
“Aw, man,” Charlie whines.
Seriously. His lack of faith is starting to get annoying.
We walk to midcourt, the pavement hot under my bare feet.
“You can stand over there,” Charlie tells me, pointing to the far corner where, I’m assuming, he’s hoping I’ll stay out of his way and far, far away from the ball.
“Hadley’s our guest,” Sam says. “It’s only polite that she gets the ball first.”
And he turns his back to the basket we’ll be using and tosses me the ball. I catch it, then tuck it between my legs so I can straighten my hat. Pull my ponytail tighter.
Then I send a bounce pass at Sam, who bounces it right back.
He crouches, knees bent, arms out, weight on the balls of his feet. I copy his stance except I keep the ball between my palms, elbows out. I watch his hands, his feet, so that when he tries to swipe the ball from me, I’m ready and swing it out of his reach.
I fake left then go right. Dribble for four steps then stop and shoot before Sam can block me, arm extended, wrist snapping. As the ball arcs up, I head toward the basket for the rebound, but Sam’s already there, back to me, crouched low, butt out, arms extended to take away my space.
Doesn’t matter as the ball hits the rim then tips in.
“Huh,” I say, frowning up at the basket in fake wonderment. “It went in.” I turn to Charlie, who’s staring at me, mouth literally open. “Is that good?”
Charlie blinks. And closes his mouth. “Uh, yeah. That’s pretty good.”
“Please. Stop with all the flattery. You’ll inflate my ego.”
“Pretty good is being generous,” Sam says as he scoops up the ball. “Your form sucked.”
“Everyone’s a critic. Or a coach.” Which is accurate as Sam is the one who taught me how to play basketball. “It’s not like I’ve had reason to shoot baskets the past year.”
But my tone is mild and teasing instead of bitter, and he grins. Dribbles the ball twice. “Hopefully it’ll come back to you soon enough.”
It does. But not enough for an epic upset.
Charlie and I lose thirteen to twenty-one, which I take as a victory—even if Charlie doesn’t. Sam is super competitive and doesn’t take it easy on his opponents. He plays hard. All the time.
Like being right, Sam loves to win.
After the game, Sam and I go into the kitchen and he gets us both glasses of water. The kitchen is my favorite room in Sam’s house. It’s huge, with sunlight streaming in from the bank of windows in the breakfast nook overlooking the pool and, as every time I’ve been here, spotless.
Over the rim of my cup, I watch Sam gulp down his water, his head tipped back, his throat working. His hair is damp at the temples, the sweat darkening it to almost black. His shirt has wet spots under his arms and the collar, down the middle of his stomach.
There’s a weird sensation in my chest and I rub my hand over it but it remains, a tugging inside of me.
Like my heart’s falling at his feet.
Catching me staring, he lowers his glass. Gives me a quizzical look. “You’re smiling.”
“Am I?” I ask, lifting my hand to my mouth, and his gaze zeroes in on my fingers as they trail over my lips.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. It’s nice. You look happy.”
My smile falters at the surprise in his tone. “Don’t I usually?”
As soon as the question comes out, I regret it.
Never ask a question you don’t want to hear the answer to.
“No,” Sam murmurs. “Not nearly often enough.”
He holds my gaze and my breath catches and I want to tell him that I am happy. That being here, with him, in this new way, makes me very happy.