4. Jordan
CHAPTER 4
JORDAN
I can’t take my eyes off Lucy. She’s in the opposite corner of the gym, but her eyes flicker over in my direction, and I see the realization dawn on her face. It almost looks like she smiles, although it’s impossible to tell from here. Maybe I’m just hoping.
I’m standing next to a ball rack with five balls on it–each of the five spots has the same count, for a total of twenty-five shots. I feel the familiar thrill of competition coursing through my veins. My heart picks up–though this could also be tied to the fact that I’m finally in the same room with Lucy again.
Even though this room is massive.
And filled with other people.
I shake my head, trying to chase away the image of Lucy pushing the hair from her shoulder and grinning as she splashed threes in my face. Somehow, she looked adorable while doing something that should’ve embarrassed me.
The clock begins the countdown. 10, 9, 8… I glance to the side and see a group of girls giggling, whispering, and very obviously looking my way. When they see me notice, the giggling gets louder.
The old me loved that kind of attention. I might have even given them a wink. But now, the only girl I want to impress is trying to beat me. And if I’m being totally honest, even that fact is a major turn-on. I love a girl with some edge.
Damn. I need to focus.
3, 2, 1… BEEP.
I start launching. Normally, I’m a one-track-mind kind of competitor. Win or die trying. But today my mentality is more “impress Lucy and then figure out a way to get her number.”
I go 3 for 5 on the first two spots. Then 4 for 5. By the fourth spot, I’m finally hitting my stride. I make all five shots and hear the crowd begin to roar. As I run to the final corner, I glance up and see that we’re tied at fifteen makes each, with one spot left.
Lucy got the better of me at the YMCA game. Now I need to even the score. The thought of a one-on-one type of competition with her sends a jolt down my spine. I can think of some other one-on-one things I would like to do with her.
I make the first shot–I hear the girls sitting on the sideline squeal.
I make the second shot–what would it feel like to have Lucy cheering for me like that?
I make the third shot–or see her wear my jersey?
I make the fourth shot–or see her wear even less?
I let the final shot go. It rims around and drops in.
Oddly, no one rushes to congratulate me. I look up at the board and see why.
We tied. We both went 20 for 25. Not a bad showing, but obviously we need a clear winner. A tie is not an acceptable result in a contest like this, which means there’s going to be a tiebreaker.
The announcer beckons us both to half-court. I meet Lucy’s eyes as I get closer and see that her subtly cocky smile has made its return. Her eyes are slightly narrowed, though–there’s a cutthroat competitor underneath that beautiful exterior .
The announcer gestures to both of us.
“How about that performance? One of the most exciting we’ve ever had in our three-point contest! Give them a hand, folks.”
Lucy beams and waves at all the cheering fans. No wonder she’s a fan favorite. I follow her lead, giving a big smile, and I hear that same posse of girls go crazy. Lucy shoots me a sideways glance, and I definitely see her roll her eyes.
Not exactly a great sign.
“However, we still need a winner,” the announcer continues. “So, we are going to have a sudden death shoot-out. First person to miss loses. Last man–or woman–standing is our champion.”
We both walk over to the top of the key, and I gesture with a giant sweeping motion. “Ladies first.”
Lucy’s eyes narrow once again, but she matches my borderline flirtatious energy with a smirk as she answers. “Fine by me.”
She calmly steps up and knocks down the first shot. I give a soft clap as she returns the sweeping gesture to give me the floor. The fans are eating this up. I approach the line and smoothly release the ball.
Nothing but net.
Lucy applauds, but under her breath, she begins the trash talk.
“Make sure to give your fangirls over there a little wave. Gotta keep the groupies happy.”
Damn, she didn’t pull any punches. But her smirk as she says it tells me this is all part of the game. Whether that game is basketball or something else remains to be seen. Whatever game she wants to play, I’m in.
“Aw, you’re jealous? That’s so cute.”
She snorts .
“I don’t think the whole fangirl thing works if I’m better than you.”
“Touché. You’re adorable. All I’m hearing is that if I win, you’re willing to join my fan club.”
I might be imagining it, but her cheeks flush as she snatches the ball out of my hands. I really want to believe I have that effect on her because I know for certain she has that effect on me. When her fingers brush mine, my whole body starts on fire. She steps toward the line, and my eyes follow the curve of her hips down her long, tan legs. Every inch of her is proving to be perfection.
I’m turning into a creep. But seriously, with a girl this hot who can also hoop, who can blame me?
Her next shot drops in while I imagine what it would be like to have those legs draped over me. I snap back to reality with the swish of the net. Holding the follow-through for a second longer than necessary, Lucy turns and raises her eyebrows.
I attempt to play it cool, but I’m done for. She’s still looking at me with those bright blue eyes, and the mixture of beauty and confidence is almost too much for me to handle. All my hands want to do is find their way to Lucy. Shooting a basketball right now has become an impossible task, even though I’ve been doing it for the last fifteen years. All that work has become irrelevant in Lucy’s presence.
I step up and inhale deeply. From behind me, Lucy gives a loud fake cough like she’s trying to trip me up. The crowd laughs, and a few people clap. I decide to lean into this little performance we’re doing. I slowly look over my shoulder, giving her a disappointed shake of my head. Her response is to bite her tongue and wink.
It’s cheeky. And insanely hot.
It’s all over for me. I just hope I don’t miss this shot too badly. Please, no airballs.
I turn back toward the hoop and launch. The shot clanks off the back of the rim, missing long. I hear a collective groan from the audience, which quickly turns to raucous applause as they realize Lucy won.
I slap a smile on my face and turn to congratulate her. As I step toward center court, I notice that Lucy appears uncomfortable. I mean, she’s still smiling, but the showmanship is gone. Now she’s sweet and almost bashful as she waves to the fans. Man, this girl has range, on the court and off.
I reach out to shake her hand. She takes it, and the fireworks return. I have to fight the urge to pull her toward me. I can’t tear my eyes away from hers. She’s a fridge and I’m a magnet. I should never say that analogy out loud—I doubt any girl wants to be called a fridge.
After holding her hand for multiple seconds longer than is normal, I crack a smile and go down on one knee, like I’m bowing–or proposing. I resist the urge to kiss her hand. Not that I don’t want to, but I’m worried that if I start, I won’t be able to stop. And in front of a packed arena, that feels like it could be a problem.
Lucy is laughing at my antics—it’s one of my new favorite sounds, on par with rain hitting a window and cracking open a can of Dr. Pepper. She yanks me to my feet.
“Not bad, newbie.”
The cockiness is back. Game on.
“Well, I couldn’t come in and beat their princess. No one wants to see that.”
I see her tense up. I struck a nerve. This may have veered off the road leading to her heart and taken a turn toward Douchetown. It’s obvious she won’t entertain that. I start trying to walk it back.
“I mean–”
But she cuts me off, holding up her hand. Underneath her smile, I see the fire burning in her eyes–she’s seething inside. But this girl is a pro at hiding what she’s really feeling. She won’t outwardly break, especially with this many people watching. So, she keeps her cool, but when she speaks, the iciness in her tone is unmistakable.
“Ahh, so you let me win? Gotcha. Yeah, no way a girl could beat you, although by my count, I’m 2-0. Good luck this week. Maybe try not letting the other team win–it’s clearly not working for you.”
With that, she turns and walks toward the rest of her team sitting on the sidelines, smiling and waving as she does. I’m still standing when she takes a seat, frozen in place, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.
The announcer begins the next contest, and I finally head toward the opposite sideline. Lucy spends the rest of the event taking pictures with young fans and chatting with boosters. Every once in a while, I feel her eyes on me. But every time I try to meet them, she turns away.
I’m an absolute moron of immeasurable proportions.
This isn’t the type of girl who wants a playboy, and that’s not what I am anymore. But I’ve never liked anyone enough to be anything else. I’ve always been Jordan Mitchell, the life of the party and the guy with every girl’s phone number. It felt like a part I could play to avoid anything real.
Because real means delving into my past.
Real means actually letting someone get to know me.
Real has always been just a little too… real.
But somehow, I know that Lucy only wants real.
And I definitely know that I want Lucy.