Page 66 of The Pocket Pair

The other steps forward, his expression looking like some kind of dare. I give him one right back.

“Brady,” he says, his handshake a little more firm than it needs to be. Another challenge. I also don’t miss the way he keeps positioning himself between me and Bryan. Brothers, from what I recall.

“It’s nice to meet y’all,” I say, making sure to meet Brady’s then Bryan’s eyes as I do.

That’s right, boys. Sometimes you do get a fresh start. I won’t tell if you don’t.

Mr. Silver likely knows their story already, or a good part of it. A social worker picked up the boys after the arrest last year. I’m thinking this is a foster situation.

And as Mr. Silver asks the boys to listen to Val and help unpack her things, they nod quickly and eagerly. This is one of the good foster situations, then. Really good. No way would the Bryan and Brady I met last year be helping unload paintings for someone else.

It’s blowing my mind more than a little bit.

With their help, we’re done in ten minutes, setting up Val’s easel and stacking canvases against the wall in a room attached to the back of the garage. The sun’s gone down now, but I can tell the big windows in this room will let in a lot of light.

That’s good for painting—right? I don’t know the first thing about what Val does, but I feel like people always talk about artists needing good light.

“You boys play ball?” I ask as I bring in the last box. “I saw the hoop out there.”

John nods eagerly, running a hand over his short curls. Brady and Bryan give more subtle nods, still looking about as wary of me as they were when I arrived.

“How about a little two on two?” I ask, then look at Val. “That is, unless you and Mr. Silver want to make it three on three.”

Val laughs. “I’d rather watch. In fact, I’d pay to see this. Is there any popcorn?”

Mr. Silver, the kind of man I can’t picture having or making popcorn, tips his head toward the house. “I think we can rummage something up.”

They head inside, the boys grab the ball, and I park my truck on the street to give us room. By the time Val and Mr. Silver return with a tray filled with popcorn bowls and cups of water, Bryan and I are losing. Badly.

More like, embarrassingly. I know the nineties song says age ain’t nothing but a number, but I’m feeling every number between me and these teens with their boundless energy. They’re also good—whereas pickup games in a driveway like this are the extent of my experience.

I’m a panting, sweaty mess, and have yet to make a shot. I wish I could say having Val watch makes me more confident, but instead, her presence makes me significantly worse. Which I didn’t think possible.

Bryan groans when I attempt a pass, almost trip over my own feet, and manage to practically gift the ball to Brady, who sinks it without so much as touching the rim. I bend over, resting my hands on my knees and trying to decide if I should worry about how out of breath I am.

“Sorry, man. You got the raw end of this deal,” I tell Bryan, but he grins and gives my back a slap.

“Come on. You’re not dead yet, old man.”

I wheeze out a laugh and decide not to comment on being called old man. “Close. You have no idea how close,” I mutter.

And because Mr. Silver and Val seem to be in deep discussion, I catch Brady’s eye. “I’m gonna be cleaning out Mrs. Fleming’s cannon in a few days. I’d love some help. Interested?”

Bryan’s head snaps toward his brother, and I don’t let my gaze stray from Brady’s. He looks like he’s trying to read into my offer.

“No tricks,” I tell him quietly with a quick shake of my head. “And it’s not required. Just an opportunity to right an old wrong.”

“We’ll be there,” he says, and then Brady manages to get by me and Bryan to score again.

Four more points for them and I’m wondering if it’s possible for someone my age to suffer cardiac arrest during a pickup basketball game. I’m leaning toward yes.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. This time, it’s Val. Her look is all smug amusement. “I’m tapping in,” she says, tipping her head toward the lawn chairs where Mr. Silver is watching.

“You sure you want to take my place, Tiny?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t look so shocked. I might get offended.”

“It’s just that you said earlier—”

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