He laughs. “Sorry, I’m kind of hyped we’re going to play again.”
“Think you can guard me better this time?” I tease.
“Not at all,” he says with a smile. “But I’m going to try.”
His positive energy is contagious, even if it’s goofy that he’s excited for me to beat him. After everything that happened last night, it’s nice to have a more upbeat vibe in the air.
When we get to the courts, they’re empty as expected. We do some basic stretches, and then warm up our shots.
After about thirty minutes, he looks at me excitedly. “One-on-one now?”
I’ve never seen a guy so enthusiastic to lose.
“Fine. You start with the ball.”
He grins and brings the ball outside of the three-point line. Dribbling with his right hand, he turns out his left hip and starts backing me down. Or trying to.
“You’re going to work that move from all the way out here?”
The strategy is usually a lot more effective when you’re not so far away from the basket. From where Rawley is, it’s a long way to travel backward.
“I need to use my extra pounds and inches somehow.” He punctuates his words by taking another step toward the hoop, now fully within the three-point line. “Pound the ball inside.”
I know from our time at the gym that Rawley’s left-hand dribble is pretty weak, so he’s going to be stuck trying to control the ball with his right. I cheat in that direction, and put my forearm lightly on his back.
“Don’t make me call a foul on you,” he jokes before trying to do some kind of dribble move to get by me.
He wobbles the ball though, and I’m able to steal it easily.
I walk back to the three-point line, and “check” the ball with him. Translation: we pass the ball back and forth once to reset the possession.
Unlike his first play, I decide to use my speed and a quick fake-out move to get past him. Without warning, I do a crossover and blow by him, dropping in an easy layup.
“Dang, I didn’t stand a chance.” His grin is wide.
I return his smile and pass him the ball. “Check, Battle.”
This time he stays in control of his dribble, and works me toward the hoop quicker. The closer we get to the net though, the tighter I play him, to keep him contained.
By the time he reaches the paint near the basket, our bodies are touching at multiple points, his ass backing into my belly, my right hand between his shoulder blades, and my chest pressed against his left arm.
“This is fun,” he says, as he bumps me again with his ass.
“Keep yapping, and watch me steal it again.”
“Not this time,” he says as he sidesteps to create more space for himself, and then shoots a seven-foot jumper. He doesn’t make it though. The ball hits the rim, and I snag the rebound.
“All talk, and no points,” I reply before taking the ball out so I can start my own possession.
To keep things challenging, I mentally decide to try to backhimdown this time. It’s good practice for when I’m matched up against a stronger player in a real game.
First, I dribble into the court until I’m at the top of the free throw line, but then instead of taking what would be an easy jumper for me, I turn around so I can try to body him toward the hoop.
In contrast to his, my left hand is almost as strong as my right, thanks to hours upon hours of practice over the years. So I use my left to handle the ball, while my dominant right side pushes against him.
Like I did earlier to him, he blankets me, and I feel every one of his extra fifty or so pounds. All that muscle pushing against my back, right shoulder, right hip, and ass.
The physical intimacy of basketball is undeniable, but there’s nothing sexual in the normal course. You’re trying to win, not get off.
