Page 2 of Falling for 42
Fuck that—beers, plural. The wily asshole.
CHAPTER 2
MALIK
Holy fucking shit.
That’s my mantra the whole game, and not because we’re kicking ass—which we are. Nope, it’s all becausehe’shere. Kobe Storm.
I’d almost tripped over my own feet when I first spotted him in the stadium crowd. That “almost” trip practically turned into whiplash and an untimely hard-on when I did a double-take reading the number 42 on his chest.
The whole game, I don’t know whether to kiss or kill Jackson. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s responsible for his big brother wearing my number. And from the initial flush in Kobe’s cheeks, I suspect he had no idea the number belonged to me.
Somehow, I still manage to play a decent game. Not my best, but I’m aware that Kobe’s eyes could be on me, so I don’t want to fuck up and make an idiot of myself. And with just four minutes left on the clock, it would be kind of awesome to score the last few points. You know, shine a spotlight on my mad skills.
The clock ticks down, and adrenaline surges through my veins. I glance over at Kobe, and when our eyes meet, my whole body heats up, starting from my toes. My heart races, and I become hyperaware of every muscle in my body, every fast beatin my chest. Just as I’m about to make my move, I spot Mikey, our captain, faking left, then right. He drives to the basket, but I’m ready.
“Open!” I shout, waving my arms like a complete idiot. He rolls his eyes but finally makes the pass, and I catch it cleanly. This is it. I’ve totally got this. I can feel the intensity of Kobe’s gaze on me, and I take a deep breath, channeling all my inner badassery.
I dribble down the court, calculating my steps like I’m some kind of basketball wizard. Just to be clear, even if I had the ambition to go pro, that wouldn’t happen. I’m a good player and can handle my own, but I’m not a legend. Certainly not like Mikey, who comes from League royalty with his professional basketball-playing dad, Cassius Britton. I glance back at Kobe, who’s leaning forward, his eyes on me. I can practically hear the crowd’s collective heartbeat as I drive closer to the hoop, already running a victory lap in my mind.
Fuck yes, he’s watching.
I go for a dramatic layup, aiming for the perfect arc. But instead of a smooth glide toward the basket, my foot slips on a rogue sweat puddle. Which, yeah, is gross, and I hope like hell that it is just sweat. Cue slow motion. My arms flail like I’m auditioning for a slapstick comedy or maybe the part of a windmill in an elementary school play—you know, the part that the kid who can’t act gets? It’s a little like the tree part. At least that’s my experience.
“Fuck!” I shout—okay,screechsuper hyper-masculine-like—but it’s too late. I crash down, smacking the floor, the ball sailing spectacularly over the backboard and into the crowd. There’s a moment of stunned silence before a wave of laughter erupts around me.
Fuck it all to hell. I’m pretty sure the ref is laughing his ass off too.
I lie there, face down, feeling the heat of embarrassment flood my cheeks. When I finally look up, I catch a glimpse of Kobe in the stands. He’s wide-eyed, lips pressed together, and the sight of him—hair tousled, eyes sparkling, his amusement clear—is a bittersweet mix of mortification and exhilaration. I can’t help but grin. Even though I made a total ass of myself, at least I gave him a good show.
“Nice move, Malik!” Jackson yells from across the court, his voice dripping with amusement.
I roll my eyes, flipping him the finger as I pick myself up, brushing off the court’s unforgiving surface. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” I mutter, but I’m grinning despite myself. There’s still time left on the clock, barely, and hey, at least I’ve given Kobe something to remember—if not my skills, then at least my spectacular wipeout.
What I don’t do is risk a look at Coach. He’s a cool guy. Hell, he even has some sexy tattoos of his own, but me fucking up like this is probably going to earn extra minutes on the clock in our next training session.
At least this is a preseason game, so it’s not being televised.
I run it off and huff out a breath as the Raccoons score two points. Damn it. We’re winning, but it’d be nice to keep the distance.
Mikey passes me by, catching the ball from Denny. With a smirk, he throws it to me. “Go get it, Mally.”
Fuck yes.
This time I bypass their center and manage a layup without missing a beat—or slipping in bodily fluid. I hold back my shudder at the thought as I jump high, managing to sink the ball with a loud grunt.
As soon as my feet hit the floor, the buzzer goes, and like the ridiculous asshole with an unhealthy crush I am, I seek Kobe out.
He’s standing, clapping hard, wearing a wide grin. He’s also looking directly at me.
Mirroring his smile, I keep staring, only to jump out of my skin when Mikey claps me on the shoulder.
“Man, total redemption moment, but I hope like hell we got that on camera.” He chuckles, shaking my shoulder a little.
I huff out a laugh, rubbing the back of my head. “Yeah, not my finest hour.”
Mikey’s all smiles as he parts his lips to speak. Before he can, he snaps his head to the right when his girlfriend, Millie, calls him.
