The Game Can’t Love You Back Page 17

  “I was lying in bed,” Jamie continues.

  A mental image flashes through my mind, making my cheeks flush.

  “And I found myself really, really curious about how you spend your weekends.”

  I tuck a strand of hair behind one ear, trying to stop picturing him between the sheets. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah.”

  There’s a moment of silence.

  “Sooooo?”

  “So?”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Oh.” I consider. “I do my homework and other school stuff. I hang out with Marcella, Scott, or some of my friends from basketball. And I practice.”

  “Are you practicing right now?” he asks. “It’s so early.”

  “It’s almost noon! And yes … I am … sort of. Just shooting some hoops.”

  His follow-up question is immediate. “Can I come over?”

  I’m stunned. I sit there, mouth open and useless for several seconds. “What?”

  “Can I come over?” he repeats. “You know … school you. On the court, just like on the field.”

  My eyes almost roll out of my head.

  Then I sit there, thinking. I’m astounded by his brazen invitation, his lack of hesitancy in calling me, suggesting we get together. Never in a million years …

  It sends me so far off-kilter, it takes me a while to actually consider. I’ve never had a guy invite himself over to my house before, besides Scott anyway, and I don’t know the protocol, or house rules, or anything.

  My parents aren’t here. I can’t ask them if it’s okay.

  Then again …

  My parents aren’t here. Neither of them is due back for several hours.

  Isn’t that what girls do? Girls who make out with guys against brick walls? Let them come over when their parents aren’t home?

  It’s not like he’s proposing holing up in my bedroom. I’m out here playing basketball; it all sounds very innocent.

  “You’re not going to beat me,” I say.

  Now I can hear the smile in his voice. “That sounds like a challenge. Be there in twenty.”

  Then, to my extreme irritation, he hangs up without saying good-bye.

  Ten second later, my phone rings again. “Yes?”

  “Hey, what’s your address?”

  “Go look that up, too.”

  Then, with extreme satisfaction, I hit the red button on my screen and end the call.

  * * *

  My three-point shots in the twenty minutes that follow are significantly less accurate than the ones I took before the call came in. Probably because of the way my hands are shaking, ever so slightly, and the way I keep glancing at the curb from the corner of my eye.

  I consider for a minute what it would’ve been like if a guy I’d ever really liked had shown up for a game. It would’ve been awful, I decide, shaking my head. If my focus was shot to shit like this.

  And did I really just refer to Jamie as a guy I really liked?

  He’s prompt, at least, putting me out of my misery. The Jeep pulls up in front of my house twenty-one minutes after the call ended, almost visibly pulsating from the loud bass of his sound system. His door opens. I suck in one final deep breath, steeling myself.

  And there he is, coming around the front of his car. In high-top Nikes, loose sweats, and a tight T-shirt. He’s got his Pirates hat on backward, ever-present sunglasses in place. He removes them as he approaches, swaggering toward me. One eyebrow goes up as he glances toward the backboard, then assesses the faded white lines my dad painted on the driveway ages ago. “So this is where the magic happens, huh?”

  That final deep breath did jack shit to steady me. Not as he makes his way toward me, looking as handsome and cocky as ever, effectively trapping me between himself and the garage. In a last-ditch attempt to buy myself some distance, I end up cradling the basketball against my chest, thinking of it as a shield.

  Is he going to try to kiss me again?

  Would that be a good thing or a bad thing?

  Before I can figure out the answer, Jamie’s standing in front of me. “What’s up, Marshall?” he greets me casually, swiping the ball out of my grasp, running toward the net, and making an easy layup.

  He rebounds his ball and returns to the top of the circle. “You should know,” he begins, dribbling three times, narrowing his eyes at the net in concentration, and firing off a shot … nothing but net. Jamie grins. “I used to play basketball, too. Before I decided to focus all my attention on baseball. You know, the way an athlete truly committed to their sport would do.”

  “Please.” I push off the wall, dashing to get the ball before he can get his hands on it again. “If you’re talented enough, that kind of focus is unnecessary.” I jog back to what would be about half-court, firing off the shot my brothers and I mastered after years of practice. I don’t even watch the ball go in, turning to cock an eyebrow at Jamie instead. “And middle school JV doesn’t really count as playing ball, anyway.”

  He throws his head back and laughs, then looks at me and shakes his head slowly, an amused smile still on his face. “You’re a piece of work. And who said anything about middle school JV?” Jamie crooks his index finger toward me, eyes sparkling with competitive flair and lingering laughter. “Bring it, sweetheart.”

  I lean forward at once, ready to go, dribbling the ball before me, feeling its rhythm. “Play to eleven? Best of three?”

  “Sure.”

  “You have a quarter?”

  “Damn, this is all business.” Jamie puts his hands into his pockets. “Not on me, but probably in my Jeep.”

  I watch as he jogs smoothly to his car, roots around inside for a few seconds, and returns, triumphantly clutching a quarter in his fist. “Call it.”

  “Tails.”

  He pushes the coin off his thumb, and we watch it turn in the air. Jamie catches it, turns it over, and smacks it onto the back of his hand. “Heads. My ball.” He snatches the basketball out of my grasp for the second time today.

  Jamie runs the ball back behind the free-throw line, and I switch instinctively into defense mode, light on the balls of my feet, arms stretched to either side. There is no way in hell you will let him score this point, I say to myself. There is no way in hell you will give him the satisfaction of beating you at your own game.

  It doesn’t take long for me to realize it’s not going to be as easy as repeating a mental mantra. Jamie doesn’t have much on me in height, but Lord knows he’s naturally athletic—quick and agile, conditioned for endurance. He makes the first three points, then has the nerve to heckle me.

  “Middle school JV, my ass. There’s only one of us who should be talking about middle school JV.”

  I grit my teeth, not wanting to show that it’s actually taking any kind of effort to keep up with him, and double my efforts. It’s my ball now, and the lead is mine for the taking.

  I take the lead at five points and never give it back. We make it to game point before he’s even scored his eighth, and the feeling of triumph that results from breaking past him for a layup and sinking my eleventh basket is fairly comparable of that to securing the victory at states.

  I’m tempted to throw my arms up in victory and run circles around him, pumping my fist in the air, screaming, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” except for the fact that it would let on how much I actually care about putting him in his place. So instead, I shrug nonchalantly as I pass him on the way back to the top of the court, calling out as a reminder, “Game started by the player who didn’t start the last one.”

  “I know that,” he snaps, eyes narrowed anew, as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  And now I can barely suppress the grin. I’ve rattled him, and it’s obvious. Maybe one shouldn’t feel quite so vindicated about irritating the boy she’s very recently kissed, but the feeling comes quite naturally to me. Let him get frustrated, I think. It’ll only make this easier.

  But he keeps his cool,
motivated, I guess, by the sheer force of his desire to keep me from taking the match without ever seeing a game three. It’s his turn to step up his game, and it’s evident from his panting and grunting that he’s overexerting to keep his early lead. Which he does, by a hair, even though midway through the game I resort to a little bit of overexerting myself.

  “Last chance to bow out before I embarrass you,” he says as he jogs back to half-court.

  “What you wouldn’t give,” I retort. I assess him—his T-shirt is clinging to his torso, rivulets of sweat are running down his neck, and I swear he’s hobbling a little bit. “I’m not really sure you have game three in you.”

  “Oh, I have game three in me. Don’t worry.”

  Game three is ugly. It’s nasty, full of sharp elbows and overly aggressive body checks from both of us, and one time I (maybe) nearly trip him on purpose. After I score my ninth point, widening my lead to three, the next time the ball is in my possession, he actually grabs my free hand and pins my left arm behind my back.

  “Umm, that’s illegal!” I cry, coming to a stop, laughing all the while. “I mean, the fouls have been blatant, but come on.”

  His body is right behind mine, still locking my arm in place, his warm voice right in my ear. “Thought you were the all-star,” he chides me. “You can’t win with a handicap?”

  I don’t answer for a second, keenly aware, for the first time during the match, of the physical proximity of his body to mine, how I can feel the heat radiating from him, how his words reaching my eardrum make my spine tingle. Turns out there’s more than one way to handicap me, and I stand there for a moment, dumbstruck, soaking up the sensation of Jamie’s nearness, not wanting to move.

  “Let go of me,” I mumble a few seconds later, shrugging out of his grasp. “Let me put this one away.”

  And this time as I attempt to advance toward the net, he manages to steal the ball from me, for only the third time over the duration of the match. He scores two points in a row, way easier than he should have, again making me resent the impact a boy can have on my game. Thank goodness no guy has interfered up to now.

  But I score point ten and recover the ball a minute later. I take my time back at half-court, trying to give myself that final push that will end this, that will make me the victor. I remember how I was thrust into his territory against my will, against my best efforts. How baseball season started on his turf, how uncomfortable he tried to make me there. This is my turf. This is my game, my forte, my superpower. He may be able to keep up with me because he’s slightly taller, and slightly bigger, because he’s a boy. But to hell if he’s going to beat me.

  I take off without warning, pushing my way past him, blocking his body with mine, spinning on a dime, and firing off a shot that I know is perfection before the ball even leaves my fingertips.

  I feel it go through the net more than I really see it or hear it. And I feel my heart explode like a sunburst in my chest. I’m pretty sure there’s no feeling better than winning, and winning against Jamie Abrams compounds the amazing sensation.

  It’s only when I turn around, when I see the actual person standing behind me, that I remember Jamie Abrams is more than a name now, that he came over here of his own free will, that he came over here to see me. And I’m shaken out of my übercompetitive trance, left questioning ever so slightly if I played this wrong, if I’ve potentially gone too far and pissed off the boy who followed me outside last night.

  His face is blank at first, but after I retrieve the ball, I find he’s standing with his arm extended, waiting to slap hands.

  I approach cautiously, unsure if I’m entering a baited trap, but he only shrugs sheepishly and offers a half smile as I touch my palm to his. “Got to let you have something, right?” he pants.

  I smile, relieved. “If that’s what lets you sleep at night.”

  Using the bottom half of my T-shirt to wipe my face off, I struggle to swallow, throat dry. “You want something to drink?”

  Jamie wipes his forehead on the shoulder of his shirt—we’re pretty gross, the two of us—and squints toward the sun. “Yes, please.”

  I turn toward the open garage, then pause, causing Jamie to bump into me. “Ummm…”

  Looking toward the dark garage again, I stare helplessly into its interior. I don’t know my parents’ policy on this. Boys in the house when they’re not home. It’s never come up. There’s never been any reason for it to come up.

  “Wait here,” I tell him. “I’ll just be right back.”

  I dash into the house before I can possibly read the look on his face.

  I grab two bottles of water from the fridge, and then, as an afterthought, double back and get a bag of pretzel twists from the pantry. When I return, I find Jamie’s settled onto the low wall at the end of the driveway. He’s put his sunglasses back on and is scrolling through his phone.

  But, to his credit, he puts it aside as soon as I return, and thanks for me for the water with a smile.

  I stare at him while we munch on the pretzels. “Can you lose the glasses, please?”

  He looks surprised. “Why?”

  Using a pretzel, I gesture over my shoulder. “Because the sun’s behind us. And … it’s annoying to talk to you when I can’t look you in the eye.”

  “Demanding,” he mutters under his breath. Then, dutifully, he removes his beloved shades, folds them, and stuffs them into his pocket.

  “So what’s the plan for the rest of the day?” he asks. “Got any more boys lined up to lure over and embarrass?”

  I smile around the pretzel stick in my mouth. “Nope, that was a privilege I reserved for you.” I chew, swallow, take a swig of my water. “I promised Marcella I’d come over this afternoon. Help her make some final decisions about her pageant dresses.”

  Jamie turns and stares at me, an unspoken question resting on those pretty lips. He quickly glances down at my sweaty gym clothes.

  “Yeah, I know.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t really understand what kind of help I’ll be, either. After the fashion show, I may have given her the wrong impression about wanting to be involved with this stuff.”

  He laughs, and it’s a really nice sound, when we’re both laughing at the same thing.

  “I have to work tonight,” he tells me. “Usually I have Saturdays off, but I switched with someone so I could go to that thing last night.” Jamie shrugs. “A night off sounds good in theory, until the time to make up for it comes around.”

  I don’t say anything, and a second later, he nudges me gently with his elbow. “Guess it was sort of worth it, though.”

  I blush, hating myself for how easily it happens. How it mirrors exactly what I’m feeling inside.

  Then, before I even have the chance to recover, a familiar blue Honda Accord rounds the corner and my spine goes ramrod straight. “Oh shit,” I mutter, lips not moving, my entire body going rigid as if playing possum in the middle of the open driveway might actually work.

  “What’s up?”

  Still my lips refuse to move. “Mrr mmm hrrr.”

  “What?”

  “My mom’s here.”

  To punctuate the statement, the Accord pulls into the driveway. My mom’s face turns right toward us. She observes … tilts her head … smiles slowly.

  “Am I here … illicitly?” Jamie whispers.

  My mom’s still taking it all in, prolonging the torture.

  “No … it’s not like that … it’s just…”

  What is it, just?

  “It’s just … I hadn’t really planned on doing introductions today,” I finally admit.

  I think of the words I used to describe Jamie to my mother in early March. Classless. Vile. Loathsome.

  I have a lot of explaining to do.

  Yet beside me, Jamie visibly relaxes. “Oh. Well, don’t worry. Moms love me. I got this.”

  My eyes shoot heavenward again as my mom’s door opens. “You really give yourself way too much credit regarding your effec
t on the female species,” I whisper.

  “Sit back and observe,” he says under his breath as she approaches us.

  “Hi,” my mom greets us. Well, greets him. Her eyes are focused on Jamie like a laser beam.

  Jamie stands up. “Hi, Mrs. Marshall.”

  She squints her eyes and studies him some more. “I’m sorry. You look familiar, but I’m blanking.” She turns her face toward me. “And Eve didn’t mention that someone was coming over.”

  Jamie deflects the blow, extending his hand to shake hers. “Jamie Abrams. And I apologize for the damp hands. Your daughter just wiped the basketball court with me.”

  And just like that, three sentences, and he’s made her smile. He is good.

  Then, a second later, recognition dawns in her eyes. She shakes her head. “Wait. Jamie. Of course.” She looks back toward me, confusion evident on her face.

  “Hmmm…,” Jamie muses. “Mrs. Marshall, the look on your face tells me that you’ve heard my name before and”—he folds his arms across his chest—“something about that look makes me think I wasn’t really talked about favorably.” Jamie looks to me for explanation, eyes wide and innocent.

  My mom actually giggles. I swear, she giggles.

  “Well, you know what, Jamie Abrams? If you found a way to her good side, more power to you. From some of those things she said”—she raises her eyebrows at him—“it seemed like an uphill battle.”

  “Ah, I’m always up for a challenge,” he answers her. Then he reaches out and hefts the paper shopping bags out of her arms. “Here, let me get that for you.”

  Her eyes, alight with something akin to amazement, never leave Jamie as she grabs the remaining bag from the car and leads him into the kitchen. I follow them, watching in wonderment as he makes small talk with her, asks her where he can set the bags, and if anything else needs to be brought in from the car.

  “Thank you, Jamie, but I think I’m set,” she answers. “It was … nice meeting you.”

  She stares at me, a thousand questions written all over her face, and I’m wondering how long I can extend his visit so I can put off answering them.

  Jamie doesn’t linger in the house, swiftly making his way to the door, but he actually stumbles over his feet and comes to a halt as he walks down the short hallway toward the front door.