Her eyes sparkle with teasing.
“You’re lying,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t forget—the whole team has been media trained. We know better than to trust journalists.”
She bubbles with laughter, the sound bright and effortless, and something in my chest tightens.
She steps into the taped-off square, arms crossed, lifting her chin like she’s preparing for battle instead of a low-stakes game of carnival hoops. I take my place next to her, the narrow space suddenly feeling way too small.
The attendant hands us the balls. They’re lighter than regulation basketballs, rubbery, slightly sticky from too many hands and spilled soda.
“Ready?” the attendant asks.
Harper rolls her shoulders. “Born ready.”
The buzzer goes off, and my adrenaline spikes.
She starts fast. Really fast.
I blink once, and she’s already sunk three shots, barely even looking at the hoop—just grab, throw, grab, throw—her movements sharp and efficient.
Of course she’s competitive.
Of course she’s good at this.
I pick up my pace, muscles kicking into something familiar, automatic. My shots land cleanly, one after the other, but she’s not slowing down, lips pressed together in concentration, a strand of hair escaping her ponytail and sticking to her temple.
The noise around us fades as we keep landing shots. All I can hear is the thud of balls hitting the backboard, the clang of rims, the buzzer ticking down.
Suddenly, one of her shots ricochets hard off the rim, rebounds at the wrong angle, and smacks her square in the cheek.
“Ouch!”
She stumbles back half a step, a hand flying to her face.
I drop my ball without a second thought, lunging toward her. “Are you okay?”
She winces, eyes watering, and I swear my heart lodges somewhere in my throat.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, blinking back the moisture. “It just—”
I’m already at her side, my hand hovering uselessly, not sure if I’m allowed to touch her.
“Let me see,” I say, my voice lower now.
She looks up at me.
And then… she smiles.
A quick, wicked grin.
And while I’m still frozen there, distracted and worried, she pivots, grabs another ball, and sinks two rapid shots in a row.
The buzzer goes off.
“Time!” the attendant bellows.
The crowd erupts.
“Cheater!” I bark, half-laughing, half-offended.
