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“It’s right there on video.”
“Trina, I was there. It didn’t happen.”
“And you remember every second of the game? Let’s see if you were even looking.” I wave the remote. “Rewind.”
His team member committed a blatant foul, and Liam is too blinded by his biased loyalty to admit it. Why can't he just swallow his pride and acknowledge the truth?
Liam looks at me as if I’m out of my mind. "It was a clean play, Trina. The umpire made the right call, trust me."
I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Clean play? Liam, are you watching the same game? That was a textbook violation, and you know it."
He shakes his head with a chuckle, as if my words are nothing more than a whimsical tale. It's infuriating. "Trina, come on.” He leans in and whispers. “Just because you’re a sports journalist doesn’t mean you know the ins and outs of the game.”
My jaw drops, and my face burns. I point the remote and rewind the game. I scroll through settings and change the playback to 0.5X.
"I know something about basketball, Liam." My voice is laced with determination.
He raises an eyebrow, his expression so smug. "Prove it.”
The video rewound too far, but I use it to my advantage. With each play that unfolds on the screen, I give a commentary, breaking down the strategies of each team and dissecting every pass.
Liam's jaw drops slightly as he sits on the edge of the sofa, nodding and mumbling words to himself like, “Yeah. She’s right.”
I pause the game just before Tandy’s foul. “Drum roll, please.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll give you an hour massage if you’re right.”
“Har. Sounds more like a reward for you.”
He doesn’t look at me, but he’s smiling.
“Foot massage,” I say. “If I’m right, you must give me a thirty-minute foot massage.”
He turns and chuckles. “Deal. And if I’m right, you have to give me one.”
“You little stinker.” I hold my chin high. “Fine. I’m going to win this argument anyway.”
With a triumphant click of the remote, I say. "Eat your smelly gym shorts, Liam Ashley.”
In slow motion, Tandy jumps, palm outstretched. His hands hang suspended in mid-air for a fraction of a second. And then, with a resounding impact, his hand makes contact with the opposition's wrist.
The opposing player's face contorts into a mask of shock and pain as if he's auditioning for a one-man Shakespearean tragedy, but the umpire gives a shake of his head and doesn’t call the foul.
I press pause and wriggle my finger at the screen. “And look at you, Liam. You’re not even watching the ball. You’ve got your back to them, defending number twelve.”
Liam's mouth opens and closes before turning to me with a hint of admiration etched on his face. He musters a sheepish grin, his pride momentarily deflated. "All right, you win. I stand corrected."
I hug his neck and laugh too loud in his ear. “Lesson number two, husband dear. The wife is always right.”
***
LIAM
I wiggle in the hard chair andlookinto the camera. I’m supposed to do my journal interview thing but all I can think about is how Trina called me out—and proved Tandy’s foul.
There’s no one else in the room with me, and I haven’t started the recording yet. It’s beyond weird sitting here, staring at a screen.
The interviews are fine. Fun even. I’ve learned how to think on my feet and tackle an interview like I would a bad play on the court.
