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Back in elementary, we both had parts in the school production of Oliver Twist. He was one of Fagan’s boys, and I played the infamous Fagan. It was quite the coup for a girl to take the part, and I killed it.
During rehearsals one day, I called him Twist. I don’t remember why, but it stuck, and soon after everyone was calling him by that moniker.
Now, while it sounds foreign on my tongue—it’s been years since I’ve used it—I’m glad I did. Keeping him on his toes boosts my confidence.
He widens his stance and inches closer still. “I’m listening, Tyler.”
A tingling warmth spreads from the center of my chest at the use of my last name. Oliver wasn’t the only one to call me Tyler—it’s common in sports—but for some reason, he was the only one to make me feel special…somehow more of everything…when he did.
Flustered, I raise my hands toward my head, and the rub of my dress against my nipples causes them to harden, suddenly tight and achy. I hurriedly weave my long hair into a messy bun on the top of my head, and he watches intently, eyes never wavering from my hands.
Now’s my chance to get one up on him.
I snatch the ball from him. “I still have what it takes, and I’ll prove it.”
Chapter2
Wren
At first, Oliver’s rooted to the spot, probably stunned, and I dribble the basketball away from him. His trance-like state doesn’t last for long and soon he’s on my heels, laughing.
“That’s what I’m talking about. Yes.” His deep voice and the warm melodic rumble of his laughter cause my insides to heat and legs to wobble.
Focus, Wren, focus.
I peer at him over my shoulder. “Do you want to flip a coin or take a shot to see who goes first?”
“Shot.” He juts his chin toward the basket. “You first.”
Gratitude and annoyance compete for top spot, as I’m unsure how I should react since he’s letting me go first. Does he think I need the help?
Horse is like Simon Says, and if I go first, I can make the shots as hard or as outlandish as I want, and contrary to what he might think, I’m not that rusty. I volunteer with the town’s elementary sports club and I’m an assistant coach to the Winslow Grove boys’ basketball team.
Oliver ties his shoelace as if he isn’t in the least bit concerned. “Remember, first person to horse loses.”
The ball flies through the air and sinks into the net without touching any of the rim. He tips his head back to watch the swish, while a confidence I only get when playing overcomes me.
“I know the rules, Twist. Let’s play.” I can’t help my smug smile.
His eyes glitter with sheer amusement. “Game on, baby.”
Damn, I usually don’t like those kinds of terms of endearment, but I can’t deny how his calling me “baby” does something strange and fluttery to my insides.
It shouldn’t. Especially since he can’t mean it that way. He’s engaged, and it was most probably a slip of the tongue. And if I don’t get a grip and focus on the game, he’s going to clean the floor with me.
Channeling all my creativity, I make the shots crazy and difficult, and he matches me every time, both of us good-humoredly trash-talking the other until I goof, and he gets the ball.
Now it’s his turn to call the shots, and he follows my lead, challenging both of us until he flubs. I now have the ball, and we’re neck and neck with only one letter to go. The next person to get the “e” loses.
“Opposite hand,” I call, not sure if it’s the right move, but I’ve made shots with my left hand before.
He groans but quickly covers with a neutral expression like it’s no big deal. His cool and unwavering mettle gives me pause, and because using the opposite hand isn’t hard enough, or I’m plain stubborn, I back up from the net to make it long range and shoot.
Every muscle in my body tenses. The ball soars toward the basket, bounces off the backboard, and circles the rim before dropping into the net. Air rushes from my lungs, my body loosening as I jump up and down, giggling.
A wicked grin flashes across his face, making him look boyish, so much like the teenager I wanted to notice me when I was younger.
He points at me, face alight like a candle. “Tyler, you’re on fire.”
