Page 27 of ClickBack

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

His expression says he has no intention of believing me.

“You could get in,” I offer. “There’s room.”

“That an invitation?”

“Part of what I’m soaking off belongs to you. You might as well participate.”

He stares at me, then starts laughing.

I close my eyes. “I heard it.”

“You sure?”

“Please get in the tub before I speak again.”

Water rises alarmingly when he lowers himself into the other end. We both look at the rim. He stops moving until it settles, and I have to press my lips together.

“Something funny?”

“I was just thinking about the people downstairs.”

“They had enough last night.”

“Jarrett.”

That only encourages him. I splash a little water in his direction, and he takes hold of my ankle in response, drawing my foot into his lap. He does nothing more with it. We work out where our legs will go, and once we have, I lean back. My body begins to stop protesting.

His arm stretches along the rim. I study it until he follows my attention.

“How long are your arms?”

“Wingspan’s seven-two.”

“So you could put one hand on my head and the other beneath my feet.”

“Why would I?”

“I’m trying to picture it.”

“You’re sitting right here looking at it.”

“You make curiosity very difficult.”

He laughs, then explains what the reach lets him do on a court. I expect to lose him somewhere among the positions. Instead, he uses his hands to show me how a player can appear open and still have nowhere to put the ball. When I offer what seems to me an obvious solution, he gives me a look that probably sends rookies back to practice.

“You could try that,” he says.

“But?”

“I’d take your ball.”

“You were less confident at the arcade.”

“Keep bringing that up.”