Long Shot (Hoops 1)

“I don’t know what you mean.” I look at her, clear-eyed, before I pick up a dish towel to dry the dishes.

“Oh, don’t feel bad,” she says “Not with his fine ass. His nose is wide open for you, girl. Stevie Wonder could see that.”

“Wow. That’s not exactly politically correct.” I feel guilty for the giggle that slips past my lips despite the inappropriateness of her humor.

“I’m not very good at beating around the bush,” she says, her expression going from uncertain to defiant to don’t give a damn. “Get yours, Iris, because Caleb is definitely getting his.”

The mere mention of Caleb’s name runs my blood cold. He won’t be back from China until next week, but I still feel the specter of him like an ill-intentioned ghost haunting me, dogging my every step.

“Look, guys talk.” She grimaces. “At least, mine does—to me he does. He’s not exactly your fiancé’s biggest fan.”

Neither am I.

I don’t volunteer a word or even a breath that might stop her.

“He says people have no idea who Caleb really is.” Torrie lays a hand over mine, and the smile she offers me is kind. Her fingers brush the very wrist that only a few weeks ago Caleb fractured. I’ve had so little kindness, so few gentle touches lately, that hers pricks tears behind my eyes.

“Don’t feel guilty if you and August West have a … a moment this week.” She gives me a direct look before going on. “At first, I thought you might be a little bougey, but you’re alright. If it was me, I’d want someone to tell me so I’m telling you. He cheats on you left and right. Sticks his dick in anything that moves.”

I know Caleb cheats, but for him to be so blatant that even the other girlfriends know is galling. It’s not enough he humiliates me in private. He has to make a laughing stock of me publically, too. I don’t give a damn if he cheats, but I’m nauseated over how he’s exposed me. He rapes me at gunpoint and won’t even use a condom. God, what might I have? An STD? Worse? Resentment and hatred boil under my skin.

“Excuse me.” I toss the dish towel onto the linoleum counter and turn to leave. At the door, I look back over my shoulder to meet the sympathy in her eyes. “Thanks, Torrie.”

She nods and turns away to finish dumping the trash. Rage and bitterness descend like a haze over me, and I’m stumbling down the hall. I tell myself I don’t mean to wander into the gym, but that’s a lie.

August shoots from several feet beyond the three-point line. He releases the ball, and it falls through the net.

“Show-off,” I say softly from the gym door, but with only the two of us present, he hears.

A smile spreads slowly over his full lips and calm eyes the color of storm clouds.

“If I’m such a show-off …” He bounces the ball to me, an

d I catch it on reflex. “… come show me you can do better.”

I dribble the ball to the center of the court, turning my back on him to release it. It swooshes through the net, and I face him, wearing a braggart’s grin.

“Luck,” he says, catching the ball when I bounce-pass it back to him. “You ever played HORSE?”

A disdainful breath is my only answer.

“Alright then.” He laughs and tosses the ball back to me. “Ladies first.”

For the next twenty minutes, he kicks my ass at HORSE so bad that by the end, I’m waving my arms in front of him when it’s his turn to shoot. Anything so he won’t keep making the shots.

“You don’t guard in HORSE,” he reminds me with a one-sided grin that has my heart double-dutching in my chest. “There’s no defense.”

“No defense, huh?” I ask. “No wonder you’re so good at it.”

“Ohhhh.” He sticks an imaginary dagger in his heart. “Still busting my balls about playing D. I’ve gotten better. At least gimme that.”

“There’s always room for improvement.” I laugh at the look on his face. He was the Rookie of the Year. His ego can withstand a little ball-busting.

He goes to shoot, and I grab his arm, making the ball fly wildly across the gym. I’m laughing, feeling freer than I have in months, maybe since before Sarai was born, when his hands land at my hips and he pulls me into him.

My smile vanishes. So does his. His broad palms burn through the thin material of my pants. My lungs feel shrunken because my breaths are so shallow; quick, urgent pulls that lift my breasts against his broad chest. The air around us heats and caramelizes until it’s thick and rich and sweet and dark—until I can almost taste it.

“I’ve been wearing this cast a long time,” he whispers, inching his fingers up my neck and into my hair. “There’s this one spot that itches so bad, but it’s in a place that I can never quite reach.”