Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

MALIK

Holy fucking shit.

That’s my mantra the whole game, and not because we’re kicking ass—which we are. Nope, it’s all because he’s here. Kobe Storm.

I’d almost tripped over my own feet when I first spotted him in the stadium crowd. That “almost” trip practically turned into whiplash and an untimely hard-on when I did a double-take reading the number 42 on his chest.

The whole game, I don’t know whether to kiss or kill Jackson. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s responsible for his big brother wearing my number. And from the initial flush in Kobe’s cheeks, I suspect he had no idea the number belonged to me.

Somehow, I still manage to play a decent game. Not my best, but I’m aware that Kobe’s eyes could be on me, so I don’t want to fuck up and make an idiot of myself. And with just four minutes left on the clock, it would be kind of awesome to score the last few points. You know, shine a spotlight on my mad skills.

The clock ticks down, and adrenaline surges through my veins. I glance over at Kobe, and when our eyes meet, my whole body heats up, starting from my toes. My heart races, and I become hyperaware of every muscle in my body, every fast beat in my chest. Just as I’m about to make my move, I spot Mikey, our captain, faking left, then right. He drives to the basket, but I’m ready.

“Open!” I shout, waving my arms like a complete idiot. He rolls his eyes but finally makes the pass, and I catch it cleanly. This is it. I’ve totally got this. I can feel the intensity of Kobe’s gaze on me, and I take a deep breath, channeling all my inner badassery.

I dribble down the court, calculating my steps like I’m some kind of basketball wizard. Just to be clear, even if I had the ambition to go pro, that wouldn’t happen. I’m a good player and can handle my own, but I’m not a legend. Certainly not like Mikey, who comes from League royalty with his professional basketball-playing dad, Cassius Britton. I glance back at Kobe, who’s leaning forward, his eyes on me. I can practically hear the crowd’s collective heartbeat as I drive closer to the hoop, already running a victory lap in my mind.

Fuck yes, he’s watching.

I go for a dramatic layup, aiming for the perfect arc. But instead of a smooth glide toward the basket, my foot slips on a rogue sweat puddle. Which, yeah, is gross, and I hope like hell that it is just sweat. Cue slow motion. My arms flail like I’m auditioning for a slapstick comedy or maybe the part of a windmill in an elementary school play—you know, the part that the kid who can’t act gets? It’s a little like the tree part. At least that’s my experience.

“Fuck!” I shout—okay, screech super hyper-masculine-like—but it’s too late. I crash down, smacking the floor, the ball sailing spectacularly over the backboard and into the crowd. There’s a moment of stunned silence before a wave of laughter erupts around me.

Fuck it all to hell. I’m pretty sure the ref is laughing his ass off too.

I lie there, face down, feeling the heat of embarrassment flood my cheeks. When I finally look up, I catch a glimpse of Kobe in the stands. He’s wide-eyed, lips pressed together, and the sight of him—hair tousled, eyes sparkling, his amusement clear—is a bittersweet mix of mortification and exhilaration. I can’t help but grin. Even though I made a total ass of myself, at least I gave him a good show.

“Nice move, Malik!” Jackson yells from across the court, his voice dripping with amusement.

I roll my eyes, flipping him the finger as I pick myself up, brushing off the court’s unforgiving surface. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” I mutter, but I’m grinning despite myself. There’s still time left on the clock, barely, and hey, at least I’ve given Kobe something to remember—if not my skills, then at least my spectacular wipeout.

What I don’t do is risk a look at Coach. He’s a cool guy. Hell, he even has some sexy tattoos of his own, but me fucking up like this is probably going to earn extra minutes on the clock in our next training session.

At least this is a preseason game, so it’s not being televised.

I run it off and huff out a breath as the Raccoons score two points. Damn it. We’re winning, but it’d be nice to keep the distance.

Mikey passes me by, catching the ball from Denny. With a smirk, he throws it to me. “Go get it, Mally.”

Fuck yes.

This time I bypass their center and manage a layup without missing a beat—or slipping in bodily fluid. I hold back my shudder at the thought as I jump high, managing to sink the ball with a loud grunt.

As soon as my feet hit the floor, the buzzer goes, and like the ridiculous asshole with an unhealthy crush I am, I seek Kobe out.

He’s standing, clapping hard, wearing a wide grin. He’s also looking directly at me.

Mirroring his smile, I keep staring, only to jump out of my skin when Mikey claps me on the shoulder.

“Man, total redemption moment, but I hope like hell we got that on camera.” He chuckles, shaking my shoulder a little.

I huff out a laugh, rubbing the back of my head. “Yeah, not my finest hour.”

Mikey’s all smiles as he parts his lips to speak. Before he can, he snaps his head to the right when his girlfriend, Millie, calls him.

“Go.” I shove his arm. “Go say hi to your girl.”

He looks back at me, his light brown skin flushed, and I roll my eyes. Millie and Mikey—Jesus, their names put together like that tells you exactly how loved-up they are and what a perfect couple they make. They’ve been best friends since childhood, which honestly, I kind of envy.

“Thanks, Mally. I probably won’t be out for drinks.”

I wave him away, not surprised by that as he spins on his heel, leaving me with an open line of sight to Jackson, who’s standing on the sideline with his brother. The same inked-up brother who Jackson knows I’ve been crushing hard on for the past couple of years.

Admittedly, I was first hooked by Kobe’s smirk and his intense gray eyes from one of Jackson’s photos. But that simple admiration entered major crushing territory once Jackson told me about his Insta account.

Do I live to watch his reels? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Between spending hours cyber-stalking—but is it really stalking if his account is public?—and prodding Jackson for updates on his hot-as-fuck brother who’s been working in Japan to perfect his already incredible tattooist skills, I feel like I know the guy.

Ridiculous, I’m aware, but fuck if him being here doesn’t have my stomach somersaulting.

Jackson steps out of his brother’s hold after a tight hug. This is only the second time they’ve seen each other since Kobe’s been stateside. Officially, it’s our first time meeting.

My feet are already moving. There’s no point in pretense or hanging back. The guy’s wearing my number—which, hello, spank bank material for the rest of my life right here. Plus, from Jackson’s loud snort when he first spotted his brother and his not-so-innocent shrug when I asked him why the hell he was wearing my number and why Jackson never told me his brother was coming, it’s super clear Jackson orchestrated this whole thing.

I’m not mad at all.

I don’t know why Jackson’s done it, but no way am I missing my opportunity.

By the time it’s obvious the direction I’m going—yeah, I’m arrowing toward Kobe like a magnet drawn to steel—Kobe’s eyes flick to me. There, right fucking there, a smooth, sexy smile appears, perfect enough to steal my breath and make my mouth dry.

“Hey,” I say once I’m in front of him, hand outstretched. “Kobe, right?” I ask, as if it’s not super fucking obvious that I know exactly who he is and that I want to jump his bones.

There’s movement from Jackson and a light, barely disguised cough covering what I know is a snort. Not that I give a shit, and I care even less when Kobe’s smile stretches wider as he grips my hand. His grip’s firm, his inked skin soft, but it’s the swipe of his thumb that makes it a struggle to swallow down the way my breath hitches.

“Yeah, and you’re Malik, right?”

Another cough from Jackson. This one gets both of our attention, and I reluctantly pull my gaze away from drinking Kobe in, and even more grudgingly, I release his hand.

Jackson’s smile is cat-that-got-the-cream wide. “We need to get going before Coach Tiller sends out a search party and kicks our asses.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right. There are still a few players milling around—Coach gives us a little slack in these preseason games. If we don’t haul ass soon, though, we’ll be on his shit list.

“I’ll meet you out front, right?” Kobe’s voice washes over me, gruff and deeper than it sounds on video.

When Jackson doesn’t answer, I frown and glance over at Kobe. His eyes are on me. Holy fuck. The hairs on my arms react immediately, standing on end like I’ve been hit with a live wire.

“Me?” I press my lips together, heat flooding my cheeks. Jesus, how high can one word sound?

Kobe tilts his head a little, a small twitch of his lips following. “Jackson owes us both beers.” He lifts his shirt, drawing my attention to the fact that he’s wearing my number. The widening of his eyes is small, but I notice it. “Uhm….” Uncertainty crosses his features. “You are twenty-one, right?”

Amusement spreads in my chest right along with a tumble of glee in my gut that it’s something he’s wondering about. “Yeah. I’m a senior. Just twenty-one for another two weeks. On Valentine’s Day, in fact.”

I’m absolutely laying all my cards out there for him.

Kobe’s brows lift, and his shoulders ease just a fraction, like I’ve clarified something bigger than just my age. There’s a flicker of relief that tells me he’s been thinking about me more than just in passing. His gaze hasn’t wavered—there’s a kind of pull to it, magnetic and strong, and I’m not pretending not to feel it.

I let out a breath, a little unsteady. “So, about that beer,” I say, trying to smooth over my nerves with a smile.

Jackson cuts in with a playful groan, clearly trying to lighten the moment. “You two are making this way too serious. But yeah, beer’s on me. First round.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m still caught in that charged space between me and Kobe. The kind of space where words feel like they don’t need to be said, but part of me wants to say them anyway—wants to make it clear I’m not playing some kind of game. I’m not trying to be coy or play hard to get. The truth is, I’ve been interested in getting to know Kobe for far too long to pretend otherwise. And right now, standing here with that quiet intensity in his eyes, I can tell he’s curious about how he ended up wearing my number.

The moment stretches, something unsaid passing between us, and then Jackson’s voice breaks it, like a door slamming open. “C’mon, Mally. We gotta move!”

I laugh, feeling the heat still buzzing in my chest. “Right, we don’t need Coach on our asses.”

Kobe’s lips tug into a half smile. “Definitely don’t.”

As I walk toward the locker room, my pulse is still racing, the electricity between us lingering like the hum after a storm. I can’t hold back my smile, excitement crackling through me.

Time to get changed. I just hope like hell I haven’t built Kobe up in my head and I’m going to be left disappointed.