Page 2 of The Right Move

“I uh…I…well, my mom…”

“You got plans or what?”

“Nope.” He quickly shakes his head. “I can rebound for you, Mr. Shay.” His eyes go wide. “Ryan! I can rebound for you, Ryan.”

His nervous strides take him to the net where he stands underneath it, wearing a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a polo shirt with our team logo. He can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen, but the staff has him dressing like he’s in his mid-forties.

I take my spot at the free-throw line where I plan to stay until I get at least a hundred shots up, but by shot number seventy-six, the doors to our private practice get thrown open.

“Ry!” my sister calls out. “Practice was over two hours ago. I went by the apartment looking for you.”

“Hey, Vee!”

Shot number seventy-seven barely touches the net as it floats through the hoop. Casey cleans up the rebound and passes it back.

“You already worked out this morning. What are you doing?”

“Getting my free throws in.”

My twin sister stands a few feet away from me with a hand on her hip. I don’t look her way, but in my periphery, I can see her shaking her head at me, her curly hair bouncing with the movement.

“What’s your name?” She directs her attention to the intern.

“I’m Casey.”

“I’ll take over for you, Casey.” Stevie intercepts his pass to me and steals his spot under the net.

The intern’s nervous gaze bounces between my sister and me.

“Do you have a ride home? It’s late.” My twin is as sweet as can be, and unlike me, I didn’t even realize the kid might not have a ride home.

“Yeah. My mom is parked out back waiting for me.”

“Ryan!” Stevie scolds. “His mom has been waiting for him.”

“I didn’t know!” I throw my hands up. “Sorry, man.”

Casey quickly shakes his head. “It was an honor, Mr. Shay.”

My eyes narrow at him.

“Ryan, I mean. It was an honor, Ryan Shay. Anytime.” Casey awkwardly waves before scurrying out the main doors.

Stevie turns back to me, standing under the net. “His mother was waiting for him,” she laughs. “How fucking adorable is that?”

“Adorable,” I deadpan, clapping my hands together and asking for the basketball that’s resting on her hip.

“How many do you have left?” She passes the ball, perfectly nailing it in my shooter’s pocket.

After twenty-seven years together and her rebounding for me more times than I could count, my twin sister has it down.

Sinking another shot, I tell her, “Twenty-two.”

She passes it back.

“What’s up? Tired of Zanders already? You ready to move back in?”

“Ha-ha,” my sister says dryly. “Not a chance. I’m obsessed with that guy.”

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