Page 28 of Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

CHAPTER 1

KOBE

Six seconds. That’s all it takes for me to settle in my seat in the college basketball stadium and realize I’ve been set up.

But there’s fuck all I can do about it now.

I hold myself tight, back straight as my gaze tracks my brother on the court. I will him to look up. Will him to make eye contact so I can threaten him with the stink eye and a throat-cutting gesture.

My kid brother may have more defined muscle than me and a few inches on my five-ten frame, but it only takes a sweep of his legs to totally lay him out.

Not that I would. Obviously. Well, I wouldn’t do real damage—partly because our folks would kick my ass but also because I reluctantly love the dickhead.

But still, Jackson’s definitely not sporting the number 42 on his jersey. Which also happens to be the number I’m wearing, since the little fuck gave me the supporter’s jersey to wear to celebrate me finally attending one of his games.

To be fair, I feel kinda guilty that this is his third year in college and playing for Barth’s Renegades, yet it’s the first game I’ve attended. In my defense, basketball is dull as fuck. Also, for the first two years of his being in college, I was overseas, and since being back stateside, I’ve been crazy busy, doing all the hours for Paulie, my friend and mentor, at his tattoo parlor.

I have the skill, my name is getting out there, and now it’s all about the money so Paulie will take my offer when I propose a partnership to open a second store.

But back to my brother.

The game’s yet to start. Currently, the team is doing warm-ups while shooting the shit.

Come on, Jackson, you dick. Look at me.

He’s laughing at something one of his teammates is saying. Fortunately, not the one wearing 42. I suppose I should check out whose number I am wearing, since it’s not my brother’s number 12.

I scan the court, bypassing the opposing team, flicking my attention away from numbers 2 and 18. Wide-eyed, my breath hitches and I’m pretty damn sure my cheeks turn bright red when my gaze connects with one of the player’s. He’s staring straight at me, his eyes intense, easy for me to see, since I’m only in the twelfth row.

After a few awkward beats, he arches his brow, the move one of self-assurance and satisfied amusement. And of course he’s wearing number 42.

It’s there, blazoned on his jersey, to the left above his team’s emblem.

His lips twitch, and with his brow still arched as he rakes his gaze over me, another wave of heat pulses through me. Number 42 is not my usual type, with his whole cocky, rolling-in-confidence attitude and his unblemished, ink-free skin, so I’m surprised by how ridiculously hot I find him. And I absolutely should be pulling my attention away, maybe shrugging in apology or a “well, hell” kind of way.

But I don’t.

Nope. Instead, my traitorous gaze has a will of its own as it drops to his lips. They’re a luscious brown—almost the same shade as his dark brown skin—and full, and fuck me if it’s not easy to imagine how puffy they’d become after kissing him senseless or letting him go to town on my cock.

Bad Kobe. Stop eye-fucking the college player.

While I’m only four years older than Jackson, and this guy looks older than my brother, I feel kinda wrong to be coming to my brother’s game and spending the time salivating over this kid.

Man . Fuck, he’s definitely a full-grown adult, even if he is still in college.

The reminder that this guy is still in college gives me a jolt. No fucking way should I be embarrassed over the number fuckup—setup… whatever. As for his cocky, sexy smirk… I wink and smirk right on back, lifting my ink-covered hand and rubbing my thumb over my bottom lip.

A thrill shoots through me when his eyes widen. My smirk stretches wide when he gulps. I wish I was closer so I could hear it.

He jerks to the side, and I wince when a basketball smacks him high on the arm.

He spins, lips moving, no doubt cussing at his teammate, all while I release a chuckle. I follow his progress, his teammate pointing toward their coach, the name Coach Tiller on the back of the hoodie he’s wearing.

Number 42 doesn’t look back as he jogs over to his coach and the gathering team. More amused than pissed off by the whole “me not wearing my brother’s number” debacle, I sit more comfortably in my seat, once more seeking out my brother. He’s easy to spot in the group surrounding Coach Tiller, especially as Mr. 42 is standing next to him, casting him furtive glances.

As soon as the coach steps away, Jackson looks in my direction. A shit-eating grin is sent my way. I snort, despite him not being able to hear me. I flip him off for good measure and shake my head. The asshole laughs, focuses once more on his coach, then breaks away and gets into position.

I have no idea what my brother’s up to, but it’s a good thing he turned twenty-one a month ago, as he owes me a beer.

Fuck that—beers, plural. The wily asshole.