Page 51 of The Player Next Door
She had made her decision, obviously. There was no way to pretend this was just a hookup, and she’d been lying to herself since before the kiss. She would just have to hope Craig didn’t look too closely at her story and that Noah wouldn’t bust her. Becauseif you’re going to be with mewas somehow the hottest thing she had heard, and obviously she was a goner.
In front of them was a park, although there wasn’t much to it aside from a basketball court and a jungle gym for toddlers, with some patchy, yellowed grass in between. Clare had walked Kiki through it a handful of times, although her usual route took her north, toward the river. The night was warm and muggy, with the occasional hint of breeze that told her that outside of the city, it might almost feel pleasant.
Logan unlatched the wire gate and led her out onto the court. “The way I see it, I played your game, so it’s only fair you play mine.”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine,” she agreed, and dropped her purse on the edge of the court. “But no mocking me about how terrible I am.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you not get the memo? Mocking is the entire point of this,” he said, bouncing the ball easily. The high-pitched resonance of the ball hitting pavement gave her an immediate flashback to middle-school gym class, and Mr. Zebrowski telling her she shouldn’t ever count on a college scholarship for sports. (It wasn’t like she’d ever thought she was agoodathlete, but still, that was a crappy thing to say to a twelve-year old.)
He settled into a dribble that somehow looked graceful, something she didn’t realize was possible until that very second. Everything about Logan felt like a revelation. His sweetness, his kindness, his talent, even his depth—none of it was what she had expected when she kissed him outside her apartment all those weeks ago.
“How much basketball have you played?” he asked, moving back and forth in front of her.
“The minimum amount required to not fail gym class in middle school.”
“Not even in high school?”
“I worked very hard to avoid any gym class that involved balls of any kind, thank you very much.”
Logan snorted at her phrasing and suppressed a grin. “So, it’s been, what, ten years?”
“Longer.”
“Okay then, I guess one-on-one is out, but you can manage a game of Horse.”
“You have a very high opinion of me based on absolutely no evidence,” she countered.
He shrugged. “If you embarrass yourself, at least there isn’t an audience,” he said, nodding to the empty park behind them. There were some small, quickly evaporating puddles on the far side of the court, and she could feel the humidity rising from the asphalt. The streetlights illuminated their side brightly, leaving the rest of the park in shadow.
A city of almost half a million people, and it was as if they were the only two who existed.
Logan kept dribbling. “You know the rules, right?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I need to make the exact same shot as you do, right? Same spot, same, uh, type? Form? Move? I don’t know what to call it.”
He shook his head fondly. “I’ll go easy on you this time; just the same spot. You shoot however you want to make it.”
“Is there a mercy rule?”
Logan caught the ball on its ascent and stepped closer to her, eyes dark. “No,” he said in a tone that sent a thrill down her spine. “No mercy. We’re done when I say we’re done.”
Clare licked her lips. “I thought you said you’d go easy on me?”
He leaned down until his nose was just brushing hers and tucked a lock of hair back behind her ear. “You can take it,” he murmured, and then stepped back, leaving Clare breathing like she’d already played four straight quarters of basketball, assuming they had quarters, which she was reasonably sure they did.
No, she was not attempting to distract herself, not in the slightest.
Logan moved to a few yards away, just outside the curved line that inscribed a semicircle around the end of the court. He raised the ball, aimed, and with a small jump sent it straight through the hoop. Logan retrieved the ball and tossed it to her, motioning to where he had been standing.
Clare caught it—barely—and took her spot, elaborately shaking out her arms and legs and shrugging her shoulders to relax them.
“Are you dancing or shooting?” he called.
“I’m stretching,” she replied primly. She finished and took the ball in both hands, surveying the distance critically. It was far. Too far. He’d picked this spot because she wouldn’t be able to make the shot, she was sure of it. He wanted to goof around, and goof around she would.
Sinking into a squat with the ball cradled between her knees, she chucked it up and forward with all her strength, hoping it would at least hit the backboard.
It didn’t. Her shot soared straight up and slammed back into the asphalt a good five feet in front of the basket. Logan let out a bark of laughter, catching the ball on its bounce back up with one hand. She bit her lower lip and shrugged. “Told you.”