Page 63 of Shot Taker

First time I made her laugh so hard she cried: yesterday.

The other day, she told me she couldn’t come over because she was working, so I brought her dinner and made her sit down for twenty minutes so we could eat together.

The way she looked up at me with those big, blue eyes like I was the best thing to happen to her all day…

Fuck, a man could get used to that.

Every time she says my name, I’m a little less mine and a little more hers.

We’ve kept things effectively on the DL. No one’s mentioned the possessive way I look at her, how she smiles at me, the fact that I find any excuse to touch her.

Today will be another story, with all of us attending dinner with the team and Harlan. I still haven’t figured out the best way to deal with that situation.

Until I do, I’m ignoring it.

My phone is already blowing up with holiday greetings as I force myself out of bed to start my routine.

Kat: Merry Christmas, loser. I’ll try to watch the game.

I hit her contact.

“Wow, a call and everything?” she drawls.

“Merry Christmas, shrimp. Surprised you were up so early.”

“Andy was opening presents hours ago, like any self-respecting nine-year-old.”

Kat’s boyfriend has a couple years on me, and as much as that irritates me, he’s a decent guy. He’s raising a kid on his own after his wife died tragically, and I respect the way he looks out for his family. He also loves the hell out of Kat.

I miss my sister. She’s in grad school out east, and I’m here and everywhere. When we play in New York, I send tickets for her and, for the past year, for Daniel and Andy too.

“What else are you doing?” I ask.

“Mmm, nothing special. I’ll fill you in later.”

“Did you get the gifts I sent?” Matching designer sweaters for her and Daniel, plus a fun-sized basketball net with a bunch of limited-edition swag for the kid.

“I don’t think so.”

“It says it was delivered yesterday.”

“Oh.” Her voice sounds weird. “I gotta go, Clay. Merry Christmas.”

I say it back, and we click off.

* * *

“Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. Best wishes to you and your family and everything you celebrate.” Miles dances around the court at shootaround, setting elf hats on heads.

He ends on Coach, who glares but holds out a hand.

“Less antics, more shooting,” Coach gripes.

“Why’re you so tense?” I demand.

“Nothing. Management and owners are at it again,” he amends at last, his voice low enough only I can hear.

He means Harlan and James.

---