Page 63 of Love You Truly

Each shot banks neatly off the backboard and sinks through the hoop. No net.

One or two of them miss, but she leans forward and scoops them up, eyes on the net, ready to take the next shot. I’m willing to believe she hasn’t played basketball in years, but there’s no way she’s new at this game.

“You didn’t tell me you’re a ringer at pop-a-shot.”

“You didn’t ask. We used to visit a cousin in Sebastopol when I was a kid, and the only thing to do at the time was go to the arcade. This was my game.”

Talking doesn’t throw her off her game, but I realize ten seconds have elapsed on the timer, and I’m still standing motionless with the ball in my hands, taking in her grace and beauty next to me. Finally, she stops, ball in hand, and turns to me. “You trying to give me an advantage? I don’t want it. Take your shot.”

The words land on me with multiple levels of meaning. True, there’s no way I can beat her at this game unless she starts missing an awful lot of baskets, but I hear what she says, and it gives me a new mission.

I want to win this woman over. I’m taking my shot.

Palming the two basketballs because I have big hands, I toss one toward the hoop, and as soon as it swishes through the net, I launch the next one. By then, the first ball has rolled back to me, and I toss it up with one hand. Again and again.

Little bells sound each time a ball makes it through the hoop, and between the two of us, we’re conducting our own little bell orchestra. A group of spectators has gathered to watch our grudge match, a few rooting out loud, mostly for Mallory.

“You’ve got a fan club,” I observe.

I’m not trying to throw her off by making her skip a beat. Or maybe I am.

The timer keeps ticking. We’re forty seconds in, and Mallory is two points ahead of me. She looks at my score for the first time, and her brows crease. She hates to lose.

Well, too bad. I hate it more.

A couple of my shots miss, and my adrenaline shoots through the roof. Five more seconds on the clock, and we’re tied. She sees it too.

We both fire off shots like crazy, frantically frustrated as the balls take too long to roll down the plastic and make our way back for the next shot. The bells chime in quick succession, and I can’t keep track of who’s making which shot and who’s ahead.

I toss my ball up, and it sweeps through the net. Next one too. I glance at Mallory’s score. She’s one point behind me, and the timer is ticking down to the last two seconds. I put up one more shot, which misses. I’m distracted. But when I reach down to grab a ball, it’s not there.

Next to me, Mallory tosses up a final shot, a buzzer-beater that brings her score to one ahead of me, just as my other ball returns to my waiting hand and I toss it toward the hoop. It slides through easily, but the buzzer has already sounded, so I don’t get the point.

“Winner!” she yells, pumping her fist in the air.

“Cheater!” I point at where three balls now sit beneath her hoop. “You swiped my ball.”

“Is it cheating to see an opportunity and take it?”

“If it prevents me from scoring the winning basket, it does.”

Browsing the display of silly hats, Mallory shakes her head. “What makes you think you would have scored?”

I laugh. “Oh, I always score when I want to.”

She rolls her eyes, but she can’t stop her smile. “I know. I just really wanted to win, and I couldn’t get the balls in my hands fast enough.”

I can’t help smirking at that. “Good to know you like balls in your hands.”

She buries her face in her hands, and I pull her in, wrapping my arms around her like I’ve wanted to do since she sank the first shot. Peeling her hands from her face, I look down at her flushed cheeks and plush lips.

“Let’s get you a hat.” I boop her nose and get ready for her to yell at me for doing it, but she shakes her head and laughs.

“Fine. Do your damage. I can take it.”

“Oh, I plan on it.”

I rub my hands together as though I’m hatching an evil scheme, but really, there’s no bad choice in the hat department. They’re all crazy, and she’d look goddamn adorable in any of them. I make her try on a big red-and-white-striped hat made of foam, but it makes her taller than me. Then I point at a baseball hat with a dragon tail sticking out of the back and an open mouth in the front.

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