Page 7

SEVEN

BECCA

Am I flirting with Eli right now?

What the hell is wrong with me?

This morning, I came here with a singular goal in mind: show up and get this “basic training” shit over with as quickly as possible. Instead, I’m holding a basketball underneath a ten-foot hoop—which I only know because of the giant handwritten sign taped to it—trying to stop my stomach from flipping. I have no clue why my reaction to him is so strong. I don’t want to react to him at all. But, good Lord, seeing him handle that ball in his gigantic hands makes me wonder how he could handle me. Which is an issue in itself because I don’t like to get handled. Ever.

I peek over my shoulder. Eli’s eyes are slits as he stalks toward me, and I cringe at how pissed he looks. Regardless of how I feel about him personally, I should probably rein it in so we can get through these lessons without killing each other. But damn, he makes it difficult.

Spinning around, I hug the ball to my chest. “So, what are we learnin’ today, Coach?”

Eli stops in his tracks, the right side of his mouth lifting. “No need to call me ‘coach.’ Sir will work just fine.”

I roll my eyes. “In your dreams. It’s either Coach or asshole. Take your pick . ”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Okay, I laid out painter’s tape to signify the important areas of the court. We’ll start with the basics. You already know you’re holding a basketball.”

“Only because of your superb teachin’ skills.”

He smirks.

A tingle rushes through me. Shit.

He points to the net. “That’s the hoop. The goal is to get the ball into the hoop.”

“Fascinatin’, but I already know this. I used to kick Lee’s ass playin’ HORSE in y’all’s driveway.”

“Basketball is not like HORSE,” he scoffs. “It’s a team sport.”

I throw my hands up in the air, because how different can it really be? “Okay. Well, how many players are on a team?”

He squats down in front of me, hands dangling between his thighs, pants pulling tight across his hips.

Don’t look at his dick. Don’t look at his dick.

I look. But I can’t help it, because he’s just hovering. And he’s got big feet, so I really can’t be blamed for wanting to know if the saying holds true.

“It differs depending on the league. But in general, fifteen players on the roster. Thirteen of which dress for games. Ten players on the court, five from each team. The main goal is to score more points than your opponent.” He quirks a brow, standing back up. “You with me so far?”

My head bobs to his words, but my mind isn’t soaking in anything. Talk about an info dump.

Maybe I should take notes.

Holding up a finger, I run to my bag, grabbing the first notebook I can find. I rush back, plopping down with my legs crossed, and look up at him. His nostrils flare as he peers at me. I shift in place, his gaze making me antsy. With the way he’s staring, you’d think I just dropped to my knees and offered to suck him off. The thought brings a very much unwanted image to my mind, and even though I try to stop it, arousal pulses through me.

The air grows thick as it crackles through the silence, and I don’t like the way it feels. I point my pen at him. “Don’t think ’cause you’re lookin’ down on me this means you’re in a position of power. I just wanna be comfortable while I have to listen to that voice of yours drone on.”

He clears his throat and looks away. “Got it.”

“Okay, so five players on each side and the goal is to score.” I’m writing feverishly, trying to hide the flush on my cheeks. “How many points if they get it in the hoop?”

“Two points if they score. Unless—” He puts up a finger and walks to an area marked with painter’s tape. “Unless they’re outside of this area, right here. You see this painted arch?” His arm stretches as he gestures, and I force myself not to inventory every dip and curve of his bicep.

I divert my gaze. “Mmhmm.”

“That’s the three-point arc. If they shoot from outside this arch, then the basket’s three points, not two.”

“Uh-huh.” I frown, chewing on the end of my pen.

He blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I didn’t mean to go into any of that today. I really just want to focus on the actual court itself. Once you get that down, we’ll get into owning the paint.”

My face scrunches. “Own the paint? That doesn’t even make sense.”

He smiles. “It will.”

Class is over for the day. It’s six p.m. and I am so ready for a long bath and a night of binge-watching The Real Housewives . My hand is cramping from all the notes I’ve taken, most of them from my lesson with Eli. My brain is still jumbled from all the lines. Midcourt lines, free throw lines, sidelines, baselines, and center circles.

Who knew those shapes on the high school gym floor actually meant something?

I’ll never admit it out loud, but Eli’s a great teacher and I have a feeling he’ll be a phenomenal coach. The Florida Coast Stingrays are lucky to have him. Honestly, I can’t imagine loving anything the way he loves the game. It bleeds through in every word he speaks, every action he takes, making it impossible not to feel his passion.

Plus, he’ll be a nice decoration to the sidelines during the games. He is an exceptional specimen. I send up a quick thanks to Mrs. Carson, may she rest in peace, for creating such a masterpiece. Now if only his personality could match that perfect face.

I’m snapped out of my thoughts when my phone vibrates with a text from Lee. About damn time. Lee will put off calling me for weeks if it means she doesn’t have to hear me bitch about her choices.

Like not telling me her brother is at FCU.

She grew up living a pretty charmed, sheltered life. Innocent in comparison to mine, but we balanced each other out. Still do. The yin to my yang. She was always full of sparkle and sunshine, until a douchebag boy named Chase moved to town and stole her light. Life slapped her silly and she still hasn’t fully recovered.

But I’ll take a sad Lee over a catatonic one.

My anger at Eli reemerges as I think about everything Lee’s had to go through without him.

Lee:

It’s been more than a day and I don’t see your big booty anywhere in town. Guess you’re all talk, huh?

Me:

Oh, the threat is still good. I’ve just been busy dealing with YOUR DAMN brOTHER at my school. What the hell, Lee?

Lee:

Oh, did he get the job there? Last I heard, he was only interviewing. Sorry, I didn’t think you’d care!

My brow furrows, and I wonder why she doesn’t know. It seems like a big piece of information, and while I know Eli hasn’t been back in years, I also know they talk on the phone once a month.

I roll my eyes, reminding myself that I don’t actually care if anyone gives a damn about Eli, and toss my phone on my nightstand. Laughter trickles in from the hallway, so I go to investigate, finding Sabrina and Jeremy sitting on the couch, giggling.

“What’s so funny, y’all? And how come I wasn’t invited to the party?”

Jeremy shrugs. “You stormed through here like hellfire and damnation were chasin’ after you.”

My lips twitch at his poor attempt at a southern accent. “Cute.”

“How’d your first day go?” Sabrina asks.

I walk over, nudging Jeremy’s leg to scooch him over. He doesn’t move, so I sit down on his lap. His arms come around my waist and I sigh, leaning into him. “It went surprisingly well, all things considered.”

“I still can’t believe you know Elliot Carson. That’s so wild.” Jeremy’s chomping at the bit to meet him. He’s a little starstruck, which is annoying.

“He’s a sexist asshole.”

“He’s one of the best point guards I’ve ever seen play the game,” he replies, his voice taking on a dreamy note. “It’s a shame what happened to him.”

I push Jeremy’s arm off me, standing up and scrunching my nose. “Try to tone down that hero worship some before you meet him. I can’t have people thinkin’ I keep company with ass kissers.”

Jeremy laughs. “I’m just happy I’ll have my best girl at my games. I need that sweet ass on the sideline cheering.” He smacks my ass cheek, making me jump. “You gonna wear my number? Or is that like…against the rules?”

“Rules never stopped me before.” I smile. “When does practice even start for y’all? Coach didn’t go over any of that, just gave me my hours.”

“October. But you’ll probably see some of us around before then for conditioning.”

I blink. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Me neither,” Sabrina chimes in.

“Lucky for you, you’ve got a fine as hell, talented assistant coach to help you study up.” Jeremy’s brows wiggle.

Irritation nags at my gut when I picture Eli’s arrogant face. But under the irritation, a spark simmers, flushing my cheeks and heating my veins.