Long Shot (Hoops 1)

She folds her lips in and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as if she’s preparing to jump out of a plane. “I love you, August.”

I doubt the world actually stops, because based on the laws of physics or whatever governs the Earth’s axis, that isn’t possible. That’s how it feels, though, when she says those words. Like all of creation has tuned in to hear this—a universal pause to acknowledge possibly the greatest moment of my life. Not winning the NCAA Championship or being drafted by the Waves. Not being Rookie of the Year. And when I finally win my ring, it won’t even compare. None of those things are as monumental as the words coming out of this beautiful little angel-witch who cast a spell on me the first time I saw her, one that has never worn off.

“I didn’t quite hear you,” I say, staring at the top of her head.

Her eyes pop open and then narrow. She smacks my chest, a wide grin stretching her mouth. “Just for that, I take it back.”

“Oh, yeah? It’s like that?” I ask laughingly. “How you just gonna take it back?”

I pick her up, ignoring her laughing screeches, and deposit her on the hood of her car, standing between her spread legs. Our breaths hitch, part exertion, part passion. My thumbs discreetly trace the underside of her breasts, and her lashes drop over the desire growing in her eyes. Glancing around the empty parking lot, she slowly slides her hand down to the front of my sweatpants and grabs my dick through the thick cotton. I squeeze my eyes closed tight against a rush of carnal pleasure. I dip to take her mouth with mine, entangling our tongues. We shelter urgent touches between our bodies.

A door slams across the parking lot, and we look up to find one of the trainers getting out of his car, trying to pretend he doesn’t see us just about fucking on the hood of Iris’s car.

I clear my throat, looking up to find Iris’s eyes laughing back at me. We sober simultaneously. I’ll never forget this moment when I understood, truly understood, that the basketball and the money and the fame, they’re all great. Those words she just said to me, though, eclipse everything else.

“I can’t remember if I said I love you, too.” I look up at the sky, as if I’m trying to recall.

“You didn’t actually,” she says.

I cup her chin, bringing her close and kissing her slowly, tasting her love, those words still resting on her tongue.

“I love you,” I say against her lips, kissing down her chin and behind her ear and any place I can get to that won’t get us arrested for indecent exposure.

“We made a memory on the hood of my car,” she says, her eyes wide and pleased. “See? It’s not so bad.”

My smile drops, and I shake my head.

“No, babe. This car’s still a piece of shit.”

47

Iris

I’ve got a bad feeling about today, even though it’s Thanksgiving and I want everything to be perfect.

The last time I watched a Waves–Stingers game, August ended up with a broken leg, and within twenty-four hours I’d been raped and beaten unconscious.

But what’s there to worry about?

I can’t help but feel I’m tempting fate sitting here out in the open, like a tree in the middle of a lightning storm. In this scenario, I’m the tree. The thing that finally feels solid, has put down roots and is flourishing. Caleb is the lightning—always violent and ready to strike.

A sinkhole has been deepening in my stomach ever since August’s mother invited me for Thanksgiving dinner. The game is Waves versus Stingers in August’s hometown, so of course we’re here watching the game, minus Jared who’s skiing in Vail. Matt, August’s stepfather got called into the office for an emergency, but should be home in time to eat. I definitely wanted to accept his mother’s invitation to dinner, and I didn’t want to have to explain my hesitation about attending the game. I can’t without divulging more than I should. And maybe … just maybe I’m getting tired of living my life in shadows cast by Caleb.

“You okay, Iris?”

Susan Foster, August’s mother, studies me with some concern. She’s probably called my name several times with no response.

I tune back in to our surroundings. It’s pre-game, and we’re a few seats behind the Waves’ bench. Apparently, Susan always sits in the stands, and it would have been doubly awkward explaining that the first time we meet, I wanted to sit apart from her in a box.

The last time I was in this building I sat behind the Stingers’ bench.

Sarai sat on my lap, just like she is now, but she was only a few months old. I have to keep reminding myself that Ramone isn’t watching over me—that I won’t go home with Caleb tonight and wake up tomorrow with bruises.

“Sorry.” I give her a smile that I hope reassures her. “Just thinking about Lo and hoping she makes it in okay.”

Lo is flying in from New York for Thanksgiving dinner with us at Mrs. Foster’s. She would have been here sooner if work hadn’t held her up in Prague.

“She’ll make it in just fine.” Mrs. Foster pats my hand and smiles kindly. “We’ll have dinner ready and all she’ll have to do is sit down to eat.”