Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

“Was she?”

“She was an old woman who wanted to celebrate her faith with her community.” Lotus shrugs philosophically. “She couldn’t sit at their table, so she made her own. Every Sunday morning, we’d sing hymns on the back porch. She’d pull out her little Bible and read to me. That thing was falling apart, pages hanging out. She kept it by her bed and read it every night.”

“And that’s how you got into the Song of Solomon?”

“It became my favorite, yeah. You ever read it?”

“We weren’t exactly religious. My father was a judge. Elected official, so we went to church whenever he was running for office. I know some Sunday school basics, but beyond that, no.”

“I think a lot of people just want to feel like there’s something else. Something beyond what life seems to be,” she says, running a fingertip around the rim of her glass.

“And you believe there is more than what life seems to be?”

“You know how scientists say we only use like ten percent of our brains?” she asks.

“Scientists don’t say that,” I correct. “It’s a myth, and it’s been debunked.”

“Are you always this much fun?”

My own quick laugh takes me by surprise. “You were about to make a point using your fake news. Don’t let me spoil all your fun with, you know, actual facts.”

“Well, the point I was trying to make before you butted in with all your facts and shit,” she says, rolling her eyes and then grinning, “is I think we only use a portion of this world—that we miss a lot of the things that are right in front of us, and we miss a lot of things we can’t see, but never sit still long enough to recognize.”

“Are you sure you’re only twenty-five? Now it doesn’t even feel right to call you PYT.”

Our chuckles and laughing eyes meet over the table. I block out the other diners, the clang of dishes, and the murmur of conversation. I focus on any breadcrumbs she might drop that could help me understand what shaped her.

“So should I call you Glad?” she asks cheekily.

“What? Hell, no.”

“But I heard people calling you that today at the park.”

“Yeah, but it’s like teammates, media.” I shake my head. “Some sports reporter said I was a warrior in the paint and that evolved to Gladiator, and a lot of people shorten it to Glad.”

“Everyone calls me Lo.”

“I think I’ll call you Button,” I say teasingly. “I mean, considering that’s what lead to our first kiss.”

I can’t know if a blush lurks under her copper-tinted cheeks, but her lashes sweep down and her pretty mouth curls at the corners.

“As in, cute as a button?” she asks. “I’m already height-challenged.”

“In the real world, we call that short.”

“At least I can walk into a restaurant without squatting.”

“You got me there,” I concede, chuckling. “Okay. How about if I only call you Button when it’s just the two of us? It’ll be our thing.”

“Do friends have ‘things’?” The look she levels over the rim of her glass asks a dozen other questions I want to answer.

“I think we’re the kind of friends who do what we want.”

Her brows arch, speculation in the mysterious dark eyes. “Oh, are we?”

This conversation has only deepened my attraction to Lotus, and I have no intention of turning back now.

“We will be,” I affirm, holding her stare.