Courtney decides to drive, so we head to the local park in her convertible, top down, and find an empty parking space between two pick-up trucks. We take the sidewalk, passing picnic tables, tennis courts, and an extensive playground. The kids scamper under a canopy of live oaks. A small boy zips across the sidewalk, nearly plowing into Courtney, and the mother follows with an apology.
Courtney leans over, cupping her hands around my ear. “Children: the most effective form of birth control.”
“I agree.” I look over at her. “Do you know that I have never even babysat?”
“Me neither.”
“Wow, Court,” I begin with enthusiasm, “we actually have something in common.”
“Yeah, and it only took us five years to figure that out.”
I lean closer to her. “I’m afraid to have kids.”
“I’m not afraid. I just don’t want them…unless my husband wants to be a stay-at¬-home dad.”
“And you’ll work?”
“No, he’ll have to have some trust fund,” she corrects. “But do you know what else this means?” I shake my head. “If we don’t have kids, when Chloe and Caitlyn are busy being baby factories, you and I can spend our days going to yoga and hanging out in coffee shops. We can be hot trophy wives while they cultivate cellulite and change poopy diapers.”
“Do you think we should tell them?”
“No, let them be happy—while they still can!”
We giggle as we come to the end of the sidewalk, and then I plop down onto the bench by the basketball court. Courtney launches toward Ian and joins the group of guys chatting by the fence. I lean over and retie my shoes, trying not to get anxious about being the only girl at this pick-up game. Hadn’t I grown up with the pressure of playing hoops with guys? Was I just nervous about playing with mere strangers or over the silly bet that Courtney made? Or did it have to do with—
A pair of pricey high tops parks in front of my worn-out pair. “So you’re the sub, huh?”
I tug at the laces one last time and then stand up with an intended “Yeah” and a possible “What’s it to you?” But I say nothing—nothing at all. Instead I stare into a pair of light emerald eyes for far too long while this hot guy just smiles back at me. His dark hair and high cheekbones give him a classically handsome look, yet something about his warm smile presents a boyish charm.
“So—I hear you play forward.” His eyes narrow as he delivers his question with mock solemnity. “You any good?” Then he holds the serious look for a moment before the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. “But— you can’t answer that without sounding conceited, can you?”
Well, I don’t have to worry about sounding conceited or anything because I have lost all ability to talk: I just continue to stare at him. This guy, who keeps smiling, belongs on the front cover of a magazine, something like Esquire or GQ. But the catch is, I’m not in the check-out line at Publix, gawking at a digitally enhanced photo of some high-paid model. No, I’m staring at a real guy—one who happens to be breathing and talking, which are things I’m finding difficult to do at the moment.
He steps closer. “You know how to talk, right?”
I nod, which really proves nothing.
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah,” I respond in a mouse-voice.
He flicks his head at the court. “You wanna’ warm up?”
I nod.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
I shrug.
He pushes out a breath. “That’s okay. As long as you can play, girl. That’s what matters.” He glances over at the competition and then leans in closer to me. “’Cause I don’t like to lose.”
“Me neither,” I return, my voice approaching normalcy.
“See, isn’t this nice?” He gestures between us. “I talk, then you talk.” He suppresses a grin. “It’s much better than me talking and you just staring.”
I shake my head. “Um, I wasn’t staring,” I scoff. “I-I-I was just—”
“It’s okay.” He steps closer, and my heart starts racing, and with his mouth inches from my ear, his words roll out softly, “I don’t mind…really, I don’t.” I catch a whiff of cinnamon before he steps back again.
I swallow down the nervous knot. “It’s, um, just that you…” I search for an appropriate excuse—a quick cover. I’m usually fast on my feet. “You look like someone I know—or m-m-maybe we’ve met before?”
“Hmm.” His eyes narrow. “Isn’t that some kind of pick-up line?”
“What?” I shake my head. “No.”
“Well.” He dismisses my objection. “It’s not very original, girl.” He glances over at the other guys, still leaning on the fence, chatting easily. He returns his attention on me, green eyes smiling. “Well, let’s hope your pick-up game is better than your pick-up lines.”
“I-I-I wasn’t…” I shake my head, exasperated, wishing we could just play—and not talk. His presence has a disastrous effect on my communicative abilities. Right now, I’d rather be giving a speech in front of the entire student body at Riverside High than converse with this green-eyed specimen of hotness.
Yet no matter how badly I fail at the art of conversation, he continues to grill me with questions: “You’re friends with Courtney, huh?”
“Yeah…why?”
“Nothing, really.” He shrugs. “You just don’t seem much like her.”
“Thank you for noticing.” I return, almost sounding like myself.
“I meant that in a good way.”
“And that’s how I took it.” I grab the ball from his hands and slide onto the court, trying to get away from the green-eyed hottie. With my mind still stuck in the previous conversational disasters, I try to figure out what I should have said differently. I pass the mid-court line and head toward the basket. I drop the ball, dribble a few times, and then slide the ball onto my hip. Really, I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I should have been more convincing with that you-remind-me-of-someone line. That’s where I went wrong. I should have—
Mr. Green Eyes saunters over and snatches the ball from my hands. “Since you’re not using this…” He slides back and steps outside the arc. “I will show you how it is done.” He aims for the net. Flawlessly, his body springs into the air, and the ball falls right into the net.
Ian and the two guys from the movies last night slide onto the court. “Suh-woosh!”
Then he glances at me with a grin and jabs a finger into his chest. “By the way, that’s what they call me.”
Swoosh, I repeat in my head, wondering what his mother calls him. I figure one of the guys will call him by his Christian name—or I can ask Ian about it later. Then I realize it doesn’t really matter. This guy, with the perfect shot and gorgeous green eyes, doesn’t need to have a name. I should just forget him, just like he will forget me in an hour. My mind needs to be on the game and what I do best.
“Hey, let’s start warming up,” Swoosh announces, and Mark, who rebounded the ball, returns it to Swoosh. He catches it and passes it over to me. “Now show us what you got, girl?”
“’Kay.” I bounce the ball a couple times and aim at the net. My mind is not on the shot, though, but on this green-eyed guy and his cocky attitude. Why would he say that stuff to me? The ball leaves my hands. Did he really think I was hitting on him? The ball banks the backboard, circles the rim, and then goes out. Crap. I push out a breath as Ian retrieves the ball. He starts dribbling toward us, and Tommy, the Duke fan from the movies last night, starts cracking up.
“What?” Swoosh baits. “You never miss a shot?”
“Not from where she’s standing.”
“Really?” Swoosh curls his finger and points to the ground where I had been moments before. Then Ian passes the ball to Tommy, and Tommy advances to the spot and—this is the absolute best part!—he misses the basket completely. I shake my head and smile.
Then Swoosh rebounds the ball and passes it over to me. “C’mon, girl, try again
.”
“Awright,” I say and line up at the free-throw line. Okay, Callie, stop thinking about him. He’s just a guy—and a very conceited one at that. You would never have a chance with him, but you do have a chance at making this shot. Just think: eighty-nine percent free-throw percentage. What’s one more? I lift the ball and let confidence take the next shot—nothing but net! Swoosh retrieves the ball and tosses it back to me. I make six more shots and then glance over my shoulder at Tommy. “You worried?”
“Not at all.”
I slide back, stepping outside the arc, and make a quick jumper. Swoosh retrieves it and passes me the ball. I catch it, pivot quickly, and toss it to Tommy. “Well, you should be.” Then I saunter across the court, needing some water. Copping an attitude makes me thirsty.
*****
The Secrets We Keep Page 5
