Right of First Refusal (Radleigh University #2)

by Dahlia Adler

  Mase raises an eyebrow at me once Jake is out of earshot. “You trust a frat guy with your drink?”

  I know he’s trying to sound disdainful, but a genuine note of concern slips in. “Despite projecting being kind of a dick right now, Jake is one of the decent ones,” I assure him. “Usually.” I glance around to see if Andi’s behind Mase somewhere, but he seems to be alone. “And what are you doing here? Slumming it? Spying on your underlings?”

  “Just trying to have a good time, same as everybody else.”

  “Everyone else might have a better time without their hardass coach here, watching them get plastered.”

  He shrugs. “I’m not here to give anyone shit. We don’t have a game tomorrow. Which is more than I can say for you.”

  Now it’s my eyebrows that shoot skyward. “And how do you know I have a game tomorrow? Lawrence Mason, are you checking out my schedule?”

  “Should’ve seen that question coming,” he says, shaking his head. “And no—I had dinner with a couple of other student coaches, including Larissa Williams. She had a lot to say about her star sophomore, in fact. The one who’s apparently on track for captain and destined to break some Radleigh records, but also keeps up the highest GPA on the team.”

  “This player sounds pretty great.”

  “Doesn’t she?”

  We lock gazes, neither of us saying a word, and I can’t imagine what he’s thinking—whether it’s admiration or hate I’m seeing, or a twisted combination of both. The longer our standoff continues, the more it feels like he’s stripping me down to my soul. It’s different from the silent staring contests we used to have, the ones that ranged anywhere from “I want you so badly right now” to “I’m going to unnerve you until you finally tell me what’s bothering you,” but…also not that different.

  I’m just about to break when Jake returns with my drink. “Rum and Coke for the lady,” he says, handing me a red plastic cup filled three-fourths of the way with bubbling brown liquid. “You want the same, Coach?”

  “Just looking for water, but I’ll get it. You two enjoy yourselves.” He steps around us and moves through the crowd with panther-like grace that shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does. It’s hard not to watch him, and not just because he’s tall. He walks like he’s in control of every cell of his body.

  He does a lot of things that way, if I recall correctly.

  I wonder where Andi is tonight, whether she’s in our room right now or meeting him here later or what. It seems so strange that I barely know the girl, barely know their relationship, even though she and I sleep just a few feet apart. But I do know she’s in her bed every night, and he’s not with her, so whatever their relationship is, I guess they’re taking it slow.

  Which, I remind myself for the millionth time, is none of my business.

  “So, I’m not the only one who wants someone they can’t have right now, huh?” Jake’s voice and subsequent laughter are low in my ears.

  God, I am awful at this whole subtlety thing. “Just shut up,” I mutter, turning away and taking a long drink.

  “Coach? Really?” Jake strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have picked him for you, but I’m not gonna lie—I’ve been pretty disappointed he doesn’t join us in the showers.”

  I whack Jake on the chest and take another drink while the not-at-all unpleasant image of Mase sudsing up fills my brain. Funny thing about hooking up at summer camp—you get a certain kind of creative with your options. I’ve had sex with Mase in sleeping bags under the stars, in a gazebo, in the lake, in the backseat of a van, and in an empty bunk, but alas, never in a shower or a bed actually meant to fit two people.

  “Holy shit.” Jake cracks up, startling me out of my reverie. “You should see your face right now. You wanna ride that pine hard.”

  “One more word and I will destroy you, Moss,” I snap. Then I drain the rest of the drink in three quick swallows. There’s no point in lying to him now, and there’s no need, either. “I keep your secret, and you keep mine. Understood?”

  He nods. “Yes’m.”

  “Good.” I hand him my empty cup. “Now get me another. I have some thoughts to obliterate.”

  I’m up bright and early on Sunday, and I realize I’ve gotten accustomed to getting dressed in the dark. When I used to live with Lizzie, she could sleep through pretty much anything, including when I turned on every light in the place looking for my lax gear. But Andi’s far more sensitive to light and noise, and I’m pretty sure living with an early riser is already driving her completely nuts.

  It doesn’t help that I accidentally knock a textbook onto the floor when I reach into my desk drawer for a sweatband, jolting her awake. “What the—”

  “Sorry!” I whisper. “I’m just on my way out. Go back to sleep.”

  She glances at the clock on her nightstand and yawns. “I thought you don’t have practice on Sundays. Didn’t you just have a game yesterday?”

  We did, and we won, barely thanks to me. I only narrowly made my only goal, and I’m still cringing thinking about a sloppy pass I made to Tish in the second quarter. “Yeah, not practice; I’m going to play basketball. With Jake.” I’m not sure why I add this last part, as if she would’ve assumed I was going to play with Mase and I needed to make it “safe” by turning it into a date with a different guy. Never mind that said date is interested in entirely different balls. Or that she’d have no reason to assume I was seeing Mase at all. Now I feel guilty, as if I’m lying, which makes no sense at all.

  Still, my guilty conscience speaks, as it’s so fond of doing. “He’s volunteering at the community center, and I asked if I could come along. It’s been a while since I’ve played, and it sounded like fun.”

  “Oh!” She smiles sleepily in recognition. “Law will be there. He loves that place. Tell him I say hi.”

  Law. It still jars me, but I need to internalize it, to make sure I use it. “Do you wanna come?” I offer. It occurs to me then that I have no idea if Andi actually plays sports at all. “I’m sure he’d be glad to see you.”

  She laughs. “Definitely not, thank you. I need more sleep, and playing ball with a bunch of kids does not sound like my idea of fun.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it. Sorry again for waking you up.” I grab my coat from over my chair and head out.

  I’m surprised to see Samara already sitting at the kitchen table when I close the bedroom door behind me, her hands cupping a steaming mug of fragrant tea, her long hair grazing the pages of a book. “Hey, didn’t realize you were up,” I greet her, taking care to keep my voice down.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” she says, closing the paperback around her index finger. “What’s your excuse?”

  I explain about the youth group, and she nods. “That’s cool that you’re helping out. I used to be involved in my church youth group for a couple of years. It’s really big where I’m from.”

  “Are you involved here?”

  An expression I can’t read flits across her face. “Nope. Done with that. Have fun, though.” Then she pastes a smile back on, and I kind of like that she’s the worst liar I’ve ever seen. “I can’t believe it starts this early.”

  “It doesn’t,” I tell her. “I figured I’d leave myself some time to jog there. It’s a couple miles.”

  She laughs, genuinely now, and shakes her head. “I don’t understand how on earth you have the energy for this stuff. You make me feel so incredibly sluglike.”

  “Hey, you do yoga.”

  “Yeah, for a half an hour in the morning, a few times a week. That’s a total joke to you.”

  “Lizzie and Frankie’s idea of exercise is throwing popcorn at the TV when they don’t like who wins showdowns on The Voice, so.” I slide on my jacket and fill up my water bottle. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Have fun,” she trills, already looking back into her book.

  Here’s hoping.

  • • •

  It’s a nice jog to the ch
urch, which looks especially pretty with the vestiges of last week’s snowfall still dusting the dark slate roof. I take my time, even detouring a little, just enjoying the quiet. According to the sign out front, services don’t start until eleven, so even on its busiest day of the week, the church is silent and peaceful right now.

  Jake told me he’d be driving, but I know he has an Audi; the only car in the parking lot right now is a busted Pontiac that looks like it’s been sitting there for a while, accumulating snow and dust. For a moment, I’m worried the building will be locked, but a quick check of the side door by the community center sign reveals it’s open.

  As soon as I enter, I hear the familiar sound of a basketball pounding the hardwood. There’s a few seconds of slow dribbling followed by a swoosh. Then again. And again. Clearly some kid in this neighborhood is already a little basketball superstar. I follow the sound of the bouncing, assuming it’ll take me to the gym, and I’m not wrong.

  The problem is that once I find the open doorway, I see that the guy hitting nothin’ but net is none other than Mase himself.

  I’m tempted to turn and jog the two miles home, but he turns before I can even contemplate it. “Cait. What are you doing here?”

  “Jake invited me. Sort of.” It’s warm in the gym, and I shrug off my jacket and unzip my hoodie. “Is it okay that I’m here?”

  “You tell me.” He tosses the ball to me, a little harder than necessary, and I grunt as it smacks me in the chest. “When’s the last time you played something that didn’t involve a stick and a bunch of girls?”

  I smirk thinking about all the dirty jokes Lizzie could work with that statement, then break away and take a shot before Mase can react. It banks in neatly, and my smirk widens into a full-blown smile. “I think I might be all right, but if you need a game of Horse to prove it to you, I’m in.”

  He scoops up the ball and tosses it back, and I position myself a couple of feet inside the three-point line and take a shot, sinking it.

  “All right, Johannssen, not bad. I may have underestimated you slightly, but you’re still gonna eat my dust.” He nudges me out of the way and takes the same shot, making it easily with barely a flick of his wrist. “You wanna take down a former D-I baller? You’re not gonna do it with weak-ass jump shots. Let’s see a real challenge.”

  “You talk so damn big, Mason.” I move off to the side, behind the three-point line, knowing that his weakest spot is just inside bounds. He snorts, no doubt realizing I’m playing off that old intel, but unfortunately, it’s a weak spot for me, too, and it bounces off the rim.

  He recovers it in one graceful leap, then lays it up out of habit. “Oh, shit,” he says the second it leaves his fingertips. “I didn’t mean for that to be my shot.”

  “Sucks for you!” I sing, replicating the layup easily.

  “So damn cheap.”

  “Hey, ninety percent of the game is mental.” I push the ball back at his chest. “Can’t handle it?”

  “Oh, I can handle anything,” he says smoothly, taking the ball to the foul line. “Including a foul shot. Backward.”

  He makes it. I don’t.

  H.

  “Show-off,” I mutter, and he laughs and scoops the ball back up.

  “You always were a sore loser.”

  “If you’re talking about that two-on-two with Scheck and Braitway, Scheck was a fucking cheater. He traveled.”

  “He did not travel!” Mase calls his next shot—a fifteen-foot jumper with a bank required—and easily sinks it. “You’re just a ridiculous hardass.”

  “Funny, that’s exactly what I hear about you as a coach,” I taunt, catching the ball and dribbling over to his spot. I make the same shot, bank and all. “Is this a reality show for you, Law? Not here to make friends?”

  “It’s a job,” he replies, holding up his hands for the ball. “So no, I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to make those guys win occasionally.”

  My loyalty to my school—and to Jake—makes those words sting, and now it’s my turn to “pass” the ball a little harder than necessary. But then I remember it’s Mase’s school now, too. He’s not just working; he’s a student. “How is it for you?” I ask as he tries his own side shot and, of course, nails it. “School, I mean. Not the coaching part. Are you liking Radleigh?”

  “It’s all right,” he says, shrugging. “Cold as balls. Actually learning some shit, though, I think. And all my credits transferred, so I’m just here one more year after this.”

  I realize I don’t even know what he’s studying. I’ve always loved numbers, and I’d known I wanted to major in Math or Econ since I was a freshman in high school, maybe earlier. But Mase had been so set on a career in the NBA that he never gave it much thought. It made sense at the time, but he’s a junior now, which means he must’ve picked something last year. “What’s your major?”

  He doesn’t get a chance to answer before the door flies open and kids come running in, calling his name. It takes me a few seconds to realize they’re swarming past a befuddled Jake and Quentin, who are twice some of their size but clearly out of their element surrounded by kids. I laugh and call out a greeting, and Jake’s face relaxes into a smile.

  “Hey, you made it.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and kisses me on the cheek. “Getting warmed up without the rest of us?”

  “Just a little game of Horse, which I probably would’ve won if you guys hadn’t shown up.”

  Mase snorts. “You do know you were losing, right?”

  “Yeah, by one letter.” I roll my eyes. “Anyway, let’s get to this.”

  I quickly learn it’s Mase’s third week there, and though his team at Radleigh may not adore him, these kids clearly do. A young one named Peter is definitely his favorite, because Peter has the same kind of unbridled enthusiasm for the sport Mase once did. An older, taller one named Carlos is obviously the most talented, followed closely by Jerome, but we do our best to tend to all the kids equally, calling out when arms aren’t bent quite right, the bounce of a dribble is too high, or footwork is sloppy.

  I’m almost amazed it takes a full twenty minutes before a skinny, pimple-faced boy actually says, “Dude, why are we taking advice from a girl?”

  “Because that girl can shoot you under the table,” Mase responds without missing a beat. “Trust me.”

  He doesn’t look at me when he says it, and he quickly changes the subject by having them all line up at the foul line, but it sparks a little warmth in me just the same. Unfortunately, Jake isn’t oblivious to it.

  “So what exactly did I miss this morning?” he murmurs at me as we go to the back of the line, leaving Mase to give each kid one-on-one instructions. “He’s pretty confident in you for one morning of Horse.”

  Do I tell him about our history? It seems wrong to share something with him that even Andi doesn’t know. But Jake can be trusted; he has to be, given the secret I’m keeping for him. And yet…

  “I think he’s just trying to inspire confidence in the hired help,” I tell Jake, watching as Mase demonstrates a perfectly precise foul shot. “Or the volunteer help, I guess.”

  “If you say so, but for what it’s worth, he did not look thrilled when I showed up. Or when I kissed you.”

  “Oh, hush. You’re just seeing what you wanna see.” And maybe what I wanna see.

  “You keep telling yourself that, Johannssen.” He shoots me a grin, then jogs up to join Mase.

  The kids take foul shots one by one, and Jake, Quentin, and I all take cues from Mase on how to correct their form clearly and patiently. You’d think he’d been working with kids for years. It’s a kinder, gentler side to him than I’ve ever seen, and for some reason it’s not helping in my quest to keep things friendly.

  “Hey,” I break in just before the guys are about to start the next round. “How about we split up so everyone can get more shots in? Jake and I can take half the guys on the other side.”

  Mase’s dark eyes flash from me to Jake, wh
o’s got a goofy grin on, and back to me. “Fine.” He directs half the line to join us on the other side and promptly shuts up any of the whining about playing with “the girl,” and for the rest of the time, Jake and I work through foul shots and layups while I work double-time not to let my gaze drift over to the other half of the court.

  When the hour ends, though, and Mase gathers everyone together for a five-on-five, the guys protest that they wanna play us instead—five of them on the four of us.

  “Then you won’t all get to play,” Mase protests.

  “We’ll rotate,” Peter says authoritatively. “Come on. You afraid you old folks can’t hack it?”

  Jake narrows his eyes. “Who you calling old, punk?”

  “So, that’s a yes, then,” says Carlos.

  “Hoooo, burn,” says Quentin. “All right, kids. Let’s do this.”

  “You in, lady?” Peter asks. “Or you afraid to break a nail?”

  “Man, kids these days still don’t have better material than that?” I shoot back. “Depressing. In my day, we walked uphill to school both ways and had more clever insults.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mase biting his lip to keep it from quirking up, and I have to do the same.

  But there’s no avoiding him now that I’ve got a point to prove.

  The kids decide to start off with Carlos, Peter, Jerome, Vince—speaker of the first sexist comment—and a small but fast kid named Oliver. We agree that I’ll do the tipoff, because at least the kids somewhat approach my height. “Don’t go easy on them, Jo…hannssen,” Mase stumbles as he realizes he just called me by his old nickname for me.

  It’s really hard to contain my smirk, then. “I never do.”

  I win the tipoff and immediately pass to Mase; it’s just instinct. We used to play together for fun all the time, pairing off against a couple of other guys, and we were a killer team. As he dribbles down the court, fending off Carlos in a way that’s definitely going a little easy himself, I remind myself that Jake’s the one who’s supposed to be my “teammate” here, and not to let myself get carried away in old habits. Judging by the way Mase gravitates toward Quentin after that, I’m guessing he’s made a similar calculation.