Chapter 4
The Layup
Andi
Why do all school gyms smell the same? Rubber, sweat, and industrial cleaner—and they're always freezing. The bleachers were already half-full with parents, grandparents, and the occasional kid being bribed with snacks to sit still.
"Come on," Bridget said, linking her arm through mine. "Let's find Harper before the game starts. I didn't tell her you were coming—I figured the surprise would be better."
We wound through the crowd toward the court where both teams were warming up.
Little girls in oversized jerseys ran drills.
The whole scene was the most adorable version of organized chaos I could remember seeing in recent history.
I spotted Harper immediately. She was tall for ten, already coordinated in a way that suggested actual athletic ability.
"There she is," Bridget said, waving.
Harper spotted us and beamed, abandoning her basketball to race in our direction. The coach's sharp whistle stopped her mid-stride. She pivoted, scooped up the forgotten ball, and made her way back to us with exaggerated dribbles that sent the ball ricocheting nearly to her chin with each bounce.
"Aunt Bridge! You came early!" Then she spotted me and practically vibrated. "Andi! You're here too?"
"Wouldn't miss it," I said, meaning it more than I'd expected to.
"Are you gonna watch the whole game? We're totally gonna win. Coach says if we play defense like we practiced—"
A whistle cut her off, and she groaned. "Oops. Gotta go. So excited you’re here!"
With quick hugs to us both, she began her sprint back to her team.
"She's gotten so tall," I said.
"I know. My sister says she's going through shoes every few months." Bridget scanned the bleachers. "Let's grab seats before the good spots are gone."
We were halfway up when a voice stopped us.
"Bridget!"
I turned—and every coherent thought evaporated.
Standing two steps below us was coffee-shop-guy. Window guy. Twenty-dollar-tip guy.
Here. At an elementary school basketball game.
"Gavin! Hey!" Bridget was already moving back down, completely oblivious to the fact that my brain had just stopped working. "How’s it going! Saw Charisse out there. She’s looking great!"
Gavin answered Bridget, but his eyes stayed on mine. My brain flatlined. My pulse kicked. I forgot how to breathe like a normal person. His lips curved into a half-smile. "Hi."
The word came out softer than the chaos around us should've allowed, but I heard it perfectly.
The word "hi" finally escaped my lips after what felt like an eternity of standing there, staring at him. Awkwardly.
Bridget's head whipped between us. "Wait. Do you two know each other?"
"No. Not yet," Gavin said, still looking at me. "Well, not really. She was working at this coffee shop over in Southie when I stopped in."
"The—" Bridget's eyes went wide. "Oh. Ooooooh. Oh! Is he? No way! That’s so—oh shit." And, to round up my utter embarrassment, my soon-to-be-ex-best-friend closed out with, "Is this coffee shop guy?"
I wanted to sink through the bleachers and disappear.
"Coffee shop guy?" Gavin's eyebrows went up, but he was fighting a smile.
My mouth opened, but nothing coherent emerged.
Heat crawled up my neck as I fumbled with the strap of my purse, nearly dropping it.
"I'm—" The name I'd had for my entire offing life suddenly evaporated from my brain.
"And—Enid—no, Andi." I pressed my palm against my forehead, feeling sweat beading at my hairline, despite the cold gym.
"Sorry, I swear I know my own name." I forced a laugh that came out more like a hiccup.
"Can we maybe rewind the last ten seconds of my life? "
"Please don't," Gavin said, and the warmth in his voice made my stomach flip. "I like knowing I made enough of an impression to get a nickname."
"Oh, you made an impression," Bridget said, way too gleefully. "The twenty-dollar tip? Very smooth, by the way."
"Oh my God, Bridge—" I wanted to strangle her.
"What? I'm helping!" She grinned at both of us. "Okay, I'm going to go save us seats before this gets more adorable. You two catch up. I'll wave when I find good ones."
"Please don't leave me—"
But she was gone, disappearing into the crowd like the traitor she was.
Gavin and I stood there on the bleachers, the crowd flowing around us, and I tried to remember how to be a normal human person who could form sentences.
"So," he said. "Coffee shop guy."
"I'm so sorry. That sounds—I didn't mean—it's not like I sit around daydreaming or nicknaming people," I was rambling. Why was I rambling? "I just—" And I stopped. Just went completely silent. And all I could think was, FML.
"It's okay." He was smiling now, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "For what it's worth, you've been 'coffee shop girl' in my head since that day, too."
"I have?"
"Without a doubt. You started as window girl—you’d been wiping down tables.
Laughing at something. The sun was coming through the window and—" He stopped, looking almost as flustered as I felt.
"I feel like the last few minutes have been a lot, so I’ll embarrass myself to help—I walked past three times before I worked up the nerve to come inside. "
"You did?"
"Nearly talked myself out of going in."
I blinked at him. "But you seemed so... calm."
"I'm good at faking it." He shifted his weight, and I realized he was nervous too. Actually nervous. "The twenty-dollar tip was because I couldn't figure out how to ask for your number without sounding like a creep."
"That's—" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or possibly both. "Wait. So instead of asking for my number, you paid me?"
"I know. I panicked." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Then spent the rest of the day kicking myself for not just asking like a normal person."
"Well, if it helps, I convinced myself I'd imagined the whole thing by the end of the day. Even though Marcus gave me hell for the better part of it."
"The guy with the tattoos?"
"Yeah. Solid teasing. Almost as good as my baby brother would have done."
Gavin's smile widened. "Good. So, I'm not the only one who's been completely distracted."
"Not even close."
We stood there for another beat, just looking at each other, and I felt that same pull from the coffee shop—like the rest of the gym had faded into static and it was just us.
A whistle blew, sharp enough to make me jump.
"We should probably—" I gestured vaguely toward the bleachers.
"Right. Yeah." But he didn't move immediately. "Though I'm pretty sure Bridget's orchestrating this entire thing."
"Oh, absolutely. She told me there would be hot single dads here." The words were out before I could stop them, and I immediately wanted to die. "I mean—she said that. Not me. Well, I didn't disagree, but—"
He laughed, cutting off my mortification. "I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment."
"You should. Definitely do that. Or don’t. It’s up to you. My God, I am not normally this awkward." I was still blushing. Would probably be blushing for the rest of my natural life.
"Come on," he said, gesturing up the bleachers. "Let's see what seats your friend saved for us."
Bridget had naturally saved two seats side by side, with her on the end. She gave me a look that clearly said, ‘you're welcome,’ as we climbed up.
"Found great seats!" she announced, patting the space next to her.
"I'm sure you did," I muttered, settling in next to Gavin. I leaned toward Bridget and whispered, "You are dead to me!"
I leaned away from Bridget, but too far; my hip colliding with Gavin's.
I straightened, creating a sliver of space between us on the cramped bleacher.
Not that it helped. My skin buzzed with awareness of him—the heat radiating from his thigh near mine, the subtle scent of his cologne, the way the bleacher shifted slightly when he moved.
The game started—organized chaos with varying levels of coordination. Some girls remembered to dribble. Others just ran with the ball tucked under their arms while the refs blew whistles that everyone ignored.
Harper made a decent pass to a smaller girl with dark brown waves. The girl caught it, looked shocked, and threw it toward the basket. It bounced off the rim, but her team cheered anyway.
"Nice try, Charisse!" Gavin called out.
My brain finally connected the dots. "Wait—that's your daughter?"
"Number seven." His whole face softened. "That's her."
I watched as Harper and Charisse ran back down the court together. "They look like they play well together."
"They do. Harper's got the height, Charisse has the speed. They balance each other out." His leg pressed against mine for a second as he leaned forward to watch the game, then he shifted back. "Sorry—these bleachers don't leave much room."
"It's fine." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I don't mind."
He glanced at me, something warm and a little surprised in his expression, then settled back in his seat. This time, he didn't move his leg away.
The game continued, and Gavin kept up a running commentary that had me laughing more than watching—pointing out the kid on the other team who seemed more interested in her shoelaces than the ball, or the coach who looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him to coaching the fourth and fifth-grade teams.
"That's Coach Tim," Gavin explained during a timeout. "Former college player. Takes this very seriously."
"For this age group?"
"Someone had to remind him last week that winning isn't everything and they're here to have fun."
"How'd that go?"
"He’s a work in progress." Gavin's lips twitched.
I laughed, and Bridget shot me a knowing look from her seat that I very deliberately ignored.
"So, what do you do?" I asked, then immediately felt stupid. "Besides daydreaming about me, I mean." I dropped my head. What the hell was wrong with me?
Gavin laughed. Thank God. "Architecture. I'm a partner at a firm downtown."
"That explains it."
"Explains what?"