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I reach the line, turn, and shoot again. Rubber ricochets against metal as the ball bounces once on the rim and then falls in the wrong direction again.
A long, blown out breath doesn’t release any of my frustration.
Four unsuccessful attempts later, I give up, abandoning the orange ball in the grass and grabbing my plastic cup. I carry it over to the bleachers, skirting the crowd gathered around center court. Someone set up a speaker next to the cooler of alcohol, a rap song with explicit lyrics splintering damp air that smells like weed.
I ignore the hub of activity and drop down on the metal still warm from the sun, kicking out my Converse and taking a long sip of water.
Grace and McKenzie are perched at the opposite end of the bleachers, talking and giggling with the group of popular girls I’ve never been a part of.
I could go over there. Could flip my hair and listen to the gossip about who’s hooked up with who this summer like it’s any of my business.
Instead, I tilt my head back to study the stars. The only reason I even showed up tonight is because it sounded slightly better than spending another night sitting at home.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, registering the lack of messages. Stare at it until the screen goes black.
Unsurprising that Maggie never texted me back. And thoroughly depressing, realizing my little sister has more of a scintillating social life than I do.
“Hey.”
I startle at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, slipping my phone back into my pocket before it becomes obvious I was staring at a black screen. Glance up at a guy I’ve never seen before, who takes a seat on the bleacher below me and holds out a hand like we’re attending a business meeting.
“I’m Brooks,” he continues.
I clear my throat and straighten, leaning forward to shake his hand. His grip is firm, his palm cool and calloused. I’m sure mine is sweaty.
“Hi. I’m Cassia.”
“Nice to meet you.” He flashes a row of straight, white teeth at me, then drops my hand and picks up his red cup. “So, you play?”
“Play…”
Brooks raises his cup and tilts it in the direction of the hoop. “I was watching you earlier.” He grimaces. “In a less creepy way than that just sounded. You’re good.”
The smile comes automatically. Not forced, the way so many have felt this summer. “You need your eyes checked, then. I didn’t make a single shot.”
He smiles back, the corners of his eyes creasing. He’s cute, I realize belatedly. Tan skin. Tall. Blond, messy hair.
“Better than I can do,” Brooks tells me.
“Yeah? Did you play?”
His long legs stretch out, his posture settling like he plans to stay put for a little while.
And it doesn’t bother me.
I’m not looking for an escape route.
“In high school. But I sucked. I didn’t make it to varsity until my senior year, and I’m pretty sure the only reason I got moved up was because the coaches felt sorry for me.”
I laugh. His self-deprecation is oddly endearing. An indication I’ve spent too much time around guys way too full of themselves.
Brooks smiles. “You never answered my question. Did you play?”
“Up until high school, yeah.”
“Why not in high school?”
I hesitate, and Brooks smiles apologetically.
