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Preston moves his hands to his narrow hips, pushing up his T-shirt enough for me to see the ridges of his well-defined abs, distracting me. Damn him. Did he do that on purpose? He licks his lips, following my line of sight. He knows what he’s doing. Jerk.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he says with a defiant smirk.
I take the ball through my legs, switching between hands, dribbling as I pass Preston on my way to the basket to make a layup. The ball goes into the basket with ease, and I hold up my hands, victorious.
“She scores,” I say, passing the ball to Preston. “Think you can match it?”
H-O-R-S-E requires the second player to match the shot. If I had missed the layup, Preston could have taken any shot he wanted.
He waves me off, a smirk touching his lips. “Please, girl, I got this. I learned how to make a layup when I was still in diapers.”
“You have to do a crossover, too,” I remind him. “That’s part of the shot.”
He snickers. “You forget who you’re talking to.”
His mom made the Coachman Crossover popular when she played basketball for Villanova. I should have known better. He’s skilled with a ball, his talents apparent when he buzzes by me in a blur. Both of his parents have rubbed off on him. Preston is naturally athletic, as if each fluid movement is programmed into his muscle memory, gifted to him at birth.
The ball hits the backboard and drops into the basket.
Jamie grabs it from beneath the net. “You two are both showoffs. At this rate, we’ll be here all day.”
“This will probably be the longest game of H-O-R-S-E in history,” I deadpan.
“Not if I can help it.” Preston grins at me like an idiot. “You’re going down, sweetheart. I never lose.”
I nudge him in the side with my elbow. “I wouldn’t speak so soon.”
“Would you guys kiss and get it over with already?”
I stare at Jamie, horrified. A silence passes between Preston and me.
Preston ignores him, pushing his hands out in front of him. “My turn. Pass the ball, Jamie.”
Preston starts at the top of the key, his eyes full of determination. He’s not used to losing. Neither am I.
In an unexpected turn of events, Preston dribbles, stopping two feet from the basket, and raises the ball to attempt a Skyhook. And the fucker actually sinks it.
“Oh, so now you think you’re Kareem?” I shake my head, annoyed. “You’re one dirty ass player, Parker. Technically, trick shots are not allowed in H-O-R-S-E.”
“Are you punking out of our bet already?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Or are you too intimidated to play me fair and square?”
I let out a puff of air. “No. Fancy shots like that are questionable.”
“It’s a hook shot. There’s nothing fancy about it,” he challenges.
“Fine, you win, Parker.”
He smiles. “I always win. Get used to it.”
The chances of me making this shot are slim. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar made this uncomfortable hook shot famous. It’s one of the hardest shots to make with any precision. Any time I’ve ever attempted to make one, my shoulder felt like it was coming out of its socket.
I follow Preston’s lead, hopeful when the ball hits the rim.
“The first H of the game,” Jamie says.
I growl in frustration, turning to look at Preston. “How did you make that?”
He shrugs, a playful smile on his lips. “Skill.”
“I’m learning more about you every second we spend together,” I admit. “I never expected you to be good at basketball, too.”
“I’m good at everything I do.” He licks his lips. “You’ll find that out soon enough.”
My breath catches in my throat. There are no words to convey what I’m thinking. Only actions. And I don’t want to act upon how I feel right now. At least I shouldn’t leap into his arms and kiss him until I run out of air. Nope, that’s not going to happen.
Focus, Bex.
He stares me down as if I’m his last meal. I kind of wish he would devour me. Because every nerve ending in my body comes alive from the sexy look on his handsome face.
We continue our game, which never seems to end. Over an hour later, I’m about to lose to Preston. He has H-O-R, and I have H-O-R-S. One more missed shot and I have to go through with the bet. I don’t even know how to dance, at least not well enough to win a contest.
Preston chooses a three-pointer, sinking it with equal ease and grace as the others. I hate that he’s so good at basketball. Isn’t hockey enough? I’m annoyed because I should be beating him—not the other way around.
I set up at the three-point line, gripping the ball in my hands. The gym is eerily quiet. I can hear myself breathing. Jamie and Preston stare at me, the game on the line. My stomach churns, and I want to puke. I can’t lose at my own sport to Preston.
