Page 19 of Half-Court Heat
“Just, like, if you guys were really dating.”
“And what did you say?”
Paige shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t need to know who you’re dating. That’s, like, gross to think about.”
“Why? Because we’re both girls?”
Paige rolled her eyes. “No, dummy. Because you’re mysister.I don’t care who you kiss. I just don’t want to see it.”
“Oh. Okay,” I breathed. “That’s fair.”
We continued our slow shuffle towards the front of the line. Paige’s interest strayed from her phone to the candy and magazines that lined the checkout aisle. She idly ticked her fingertips over the rows of candy bars and chapstick.
“If anyone says anything mean about you and Eva,” she said offhandedly, “you should just ignore it.”
A soft smile fell to my lips. “That’s good advice, P. Thanks.”
Chapter
Seven
November in central Wisconsin was unpredictable. Typically, the leaves had all died and the temperatures had dropped, but that year we’d gotten a rare second summer—just warm enough to be outside in shorts, slides, and a long-sleeved T-shirt.
My mom was inside, pulling together what was sure to be an overly elaborate home-cooked meal, while my dad had claimed his spot on the recliner, drifting in and out of sleep as college football played at a low volume in the background.
Paige had never shown any interest in sports—not even basketball. Maybe because I lived and breathed it, she wanted nothing to do with anything I liked. So it surprised me when she suggested we shoot around on the modest court in our parents’ driveway once we’d put the groceries away.
I’d expected her to retreat to her room, not grab a well-worn basketball from the garage and give me a hopeful look.
I was tall for a girl—just under six feet—while Paige didn’t have my height. Not yet, anyway. I’d hit my growth spurt freshman year of high school. Paige was still in junior high, so she had time. Height was a tricky thing for a girl. I’d gotten lucky because I loved basketball, but if you weren’t into sports, allthose extra inches could be a burden. No one liked to stick out. Especially not at that age.
“How do you do that?” Paige asked.
I dribbled the ball in place. I loved the sound of leather on hardwood, but there was nothing like the playgroundpingof a basketball against pavement.
“What?”
“You, like, dribbled behind your back.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t even realized I’d done it. It was muscle memory—something I did without thinking.
“Push the ball with your right fingertips behind your back and imagine you’re checking your back pocket for something,” I told her. “Keep your left hand ready to receive the ball.”
Paige tried to copy my movements. The first attempt sent the ball careening off her right ankle and into the grass.
“Okay. That was embarrassing,” she muttered, jogging after it.
“It just takes practice,” I encouraged. “Stay loose and don’t rush it. You’re not trying to be on SportsCenter. Just get the motion down.”
She tried again. This time the ball whipped around too fast and ricocheted off her left hip. She huffed but reset without me needing to say anything. I could see it in her face—stubborn determination, the kind that ran in our family whether we liked it or not.
On the third try, the ball made it behind her back and landed in her left hand. Her whole face lit up.
“I did it!”
“Nice job, P.”
She grinned, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. “That felt cool.”
