Page 23 of Read With Your Heart

The statement sounds sinister, but I don’t believe he is. My mouth falls open slowly as my heart picks up speed. Prison. What did he do? Should I be afraid, after all? Did he kill someone? I spin, needing to see his face.

His eyes lower to the court. “I wanted a place where nobody knew my name, and I could make a fresh start.”

I still don’t respond. Instead, I place the ball on my hip, taking a moment to process my thoughts as my breath draws short. I have so many questions, but he speaks before I can voice any of them.

“Grand theft auto.” His eyes lift to mine. “And it’s not the video game. I stole cars, stripped the parts, and sold them off. I got caught. Served three years.”

I still can’t speak.

“That make you nervous?” he questions. He holds my gaze. The silvery gleam shifts to hardened steel.

“Should it?” I whisper, reminding myself stealing a car is not the same as murder.

“Maybe.” He places his hands on my hips and spins me toward the basket. “But I’ve been out for more than a year.” Whether it’s his admission or his hands on my body, I shake as I shoot. Surprisingly, I make the shot. I can’t believe I even came close to the basket.

“How do you have a job?” I blurt although it’s intrusive and insensitive. His hands remain on my hips, and I want to lean into him. I want him to tell me again I have nothing to fear from him. He’s not a criminal, even if he’s been convicted of a felony.

“I work at Dixon’s. He was willing to give me a chance. It’s boring, but it pays, and it’s honest.” His hands slip away from me, and I almost kick myself for questioning him because I want to know more about him. He continues to speak as he crosses the court in long strides to retrieve the ball. “But money’s tight with my sisters here.”

“How did they get here?” I figure I’m far enough along in my inquisition that I might as well keep interrogating him until he tells me something is none of my damn business.

“Lena drove them.” He chuckles as he takes a quick shot.

“Hey, that doesn’t count.” He needs to be back at the line, like me. Maybe he could come back here and put his hands on my hips again. Maybe he could face me, and I could place my hands on his bare chest. Maybe I could feel his heart as he confesses everything to me. Instead, I snark, “What I mean, smart-ass, is why are they here?”

He tosses the ball to me and looks off in the distance. I can tell he’s contemplating whether to tell me the truth, and I realize I’m really pushing.

“My parents have been detained.” He closes his eyes, resting his hands on his hips.

“What does that mean?” I question, holding off from taking my shot.

“My parents were hauled in for false documentation.”

“Your parents aren’t legal?” Again, I gape and stare and feel all kinds of foolish and naïve about these kinds of things.

Leon shakes his head. “The factory where they worked was raided, and they were sent to a detainment center.”

I stare at his beautiful body until he tips his head for me to shoot. I have a feeling he’s only going to keep talking as long as we keep playing. I take my turn, hardly focusing on the rim.

“Will they be back? Will they be okay?” My voice rises. I’ve seen this kind of thing in the news, but it always seems like it happens in another land. Not this country. Not America. Then again, that’s exactly where it happens. Regardless of whether illegal immigration is right or wrong, I feel for families who only want a better life and think America will provide it.

“Are you here illegally?” I question as he comes to the line, prepping for his shot.

“Natural born citizen, as are my sisters.” He crosses himself, but he mocks the symbol. He bends his knees like he’s going to take his shot but looks over at me before he shoots. “Can we just play?” The irritation in his voice tells me our conversation is getting tedious. He’d like to move on, win the game, and get a dinner out of it.

It wasn’t specified if I’m supposed to make dinner for him or take him out to dinner. Or did he simply mean have dinner with him, like a date?

Don’t be ridiculous, I remind myself. I’m not date worthy. I’m not even divorced yet. I shouldn’t be thinking about dates.

I’m not.

I didn’t pay attention to his shot, and all too quickly, the ball is coming back to me. I barely catch it, and we continue without speaking for a few minutes. My mind races. Prison. Detainment. His parents. His sisters.

“Why a teacher?” he questions, breaking into my thoughts as he passes the ball to me for another turn.

Setting up my shot, I take it before I answer him. “I’ve always loved kids, ever since I was little. My mother let me have a summer camp in our backyard when I was ten. Most of the kids were four or five. I thought I wanted to work with the younger set, but when I went to college, I settled on the older ones. I thought I’d make more of a difference with them. My certificate is grades six through twelve. I wanted to be down at the middle school, but when the high school position opened up, I took it just to get in the district. I’ve been here ever since.”

He’s watching me again, his head tilting to the side like it does.