“My older brother never let me win,” she shrugs. “So I learned how to play like a boy.”
“You’re not playing like a girl,” I say, watching her nail another shot with surgical precision. “You’re playing like someone who’s actively trying to humiliate me.”
“I’m playing like someone who doesn’t shrink herself to impress a man,” she counters, not even glancing my way as the ball swishes through the net.
I laugh, genuinely impressed, and toss up another shot. I miss.
She wins, smirking like a villain, breaking into this little victory dance that’s all hips and effortless laughter. I’m certain she’s doing it on purpose, just to make it impossible for me to pretend I’m not already completely obsessed with her.
“You want some cotton candy?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows.
“That stuff’s terrible for your teeth,” I say, trying to sound rational. “And just all-around disgusting.”
She gasps like I’ve just hurt a puppy. “First of all, cotton candy being terrible for your teeth is arequirement.Second, who hurt you as a child? Because no sane person calls cotton candy disgusting.”
I shrug. “I’m the eldest of four. I guess I’m just used to looking out for people, telling them to drink water, brush their teeth, and avoid pink clouds of sugar masquerading as sustenance.”
“Looking out for people where you come from means killing their joy?”
“I’m Nigerian,” I say flatly. “We don’t believe in joy without guilt.”
She laughs. “I think I’ve heard about that philosophy once or twice.”
We both slow our strides as Michael Jackson moonwalks directly into our path. He’s spinning and singing…sort of…and I stop mid-step, unsure if I should move around him or clap.
We both start laughing. He keeps dancing.
“I think you have to tip him,” she says, leaning close, her voice low and playful. “So he’ll move.”
“You’re joking.”
She raises a brow. “Try it. Give him a five and see what happens.”
I pull out my money clip and flip through. “All I’ve got is a hundred.”
Without missing a beat, Michael Jackson spins, grabs it, yells, “Hee-hee! That’ll do!” and glides off like a smooth criminal.
I stare after him. Then look down at Aspen. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were hustling me.”
She grins. “Yeah. The ultimate hustle that starts with marriage.”
“And to think, we haven’t even talked about how many kids we’re going to have,” I joke.
“Two. Max. So don’t get any ideas from your football team of a family.”
I laugh. “You know me so well, honey. Ihavealways wanted a big family. Exactly like the one I grew up in—two boys, two girls.”
That catches her off guard. “Seriously? Why?”
“Because I loved it. We grew up in a tight-knit home, and it made us close. Really close.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” is all she says.
I don’t know exactly what hits her in that moment—my voice, the memory, or just the simplicity of the truth—but she reaches out and grabs my hand. And when she laces her fingers through mine and we weave through the arcade crowd, I find myself hoping she won't let go.
“My dad’s an oil engineer,” I continue. “Real serious, very buttoned-up. He moved us to London when I was a kid.”
“From Nigeria?”
