Page 3 of Unforgettable Player

Brad still has that same, short, blond hair and beady, blue eyes that are always looking shiftily at everything. I don’t know why I expected him to look different. It’s only been a year since I last saw him. While I was traveling the world selling new tech software to fortune 500 companies, Brad and all my other high school friends were here, doing the same thing they’ve always done. And yet, somehow, I’m still embarrassed, on edge waiting for him to ask about Harvard or hockey.

Instead, he welcomes me back with a slap on the back and we slip easily into old habits, playing ball and shooting the shit.

“How was Cali?” he asks.

“It was good,” I lie. I throw the ball over his head and get one in the net.

Brad whistles. “Nice shot.”

I bounce the ball to him and he takes a shot, it spins around the rim before going in.

“What were the girls like out there?” He pumps his eyebrows.

I shrug. “They were cool.”

“Cool? Come on, man. Give me some details.”

Everything in me squirms. It’s not like I didn’t hook up when I was in California, but I don’t want to talk about it with him.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I ask.

“Exactly. Let me live vicariously through you.”

I shake my head and he laughs. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Heather. But a guy can have an imagination, can’t he?”

I take another shot without answering. The ball drops cleanly through the net.

We’re getting competitive, shoving each other out of the way to steal the ball, when a car screeches to a halt outside the house.

I recognize that music—and the reckless driving—right away.

Scout’s parked her powder blue, VW beetle diagonally across the driveway. I really wish I didn’t recognize the music blasting through the windows, but growing up with Wednesday Adams didn’t give me much choice.

Scout climbs out of the car wearing a ridiculous pair of heart-shaped sunglasses, a band t-shirt, a plaid skirt, and Doc Martens. She pushes her glasses down to glare at me and Brad just as the music stops playing.

The person with her has climbed out of the passenger side and is walking around the car toward the house.

Logically, I know this has to be Elliot. Scout has a strict, ‘I hate everyone as a general rule,’ policy, and Elliot is one of the very few exceptions. She adopted him on the first day of kindergarten and they’ve been joined at the hip ever since.

But when I look at the guy walking toward me in a long-sleeve, black shirt and loose-fitting jeans, it doesn’t look like Elliot. At least, he doesn’t look the way I remember ‘little Elliot’ looking.

Elliot’s carrying a paper bag the size of a record under one arm. Like Scout, he’s wearing sunglasses. His are plain, black Ray-Bans. They somehow accent his elegant jawline and sumptuous lips.

“Hey.” It takes me a beat to realize that Scout is snapping her fingers in my face. “What are you staring at?”

The back of my neck prickles as I spit out a garbled protest.

“Whatever. Come on, Eli, let’s go inside before we catch whatever these two losers have.”

“Pleasure as always, Scout,” Brad calls after her.

I’m too stunned to say anything.

I’m used to my sister’s acerbic personality. What I’m not used to is little Elliot looking like that. When the hell did he get so hot?

2

ELLIOT