Chapter 8 #2
“You actually did that? I was just making that up.” He sounded incredulous.
“It was an accident,” I replied, ignoring the growing smile on his face.
When I still hesitated, he raised his eyebrows. “It doesn’t have to be the hair, you know. You can touch me somewhere else. You pick.”
My gaze dropped to the broad lines on his bare chest and stomach, and suddenly my face felt itchy and hot. I placed my hand on his head, letting my fingers roam through the long strands Jake spent all day pushing back from his face.
“You need a haircut,” I said.
“Real cowboys don’t sit in salons.”
I moved my fingers down his forehead to his sideburns before slowly dragging my fingers through the side of his crown, smiling when Jake shivered at our contact.
“I don’t need lessons. You’re totally being swooned,” I whispered triumphantly.
He stepped back to put some space between us. “Alright. One on one. You and me. We play to ten.”
As he turned away, my gaze drifted down his bare back.
The visual effect of outdoor labor etched in the hard lines and definition on his body.
A familiar sense of our upbringing settled over me, where Jake would do embarrassing things to get a reaction out of me.
He was doing that now, and even amid my pounding heart and fiery cheeks, it felt different than it had before.
I needed to play this just right. Give it back to him a bit.
Which meant I couldn’t be ruffled by his touching.
He was going to shove his half-naked body in my face for this game, and I needed to be ready.
I would be ready.
Spoiler: I wasn’t ready.
I was going to lose for the second time tonight because Jake wasn’t playing fair.
It was like Briggs on repeat but…different.
This time, I knew what Jake was doing. I was prepared for the accidental touches, but what I didn’t prepare for was the warmth of his skin pressed against my back when I was trying to keep him from a rebound.
His hand on my arm. I had played hundreds of pickup games with Jake growing up, and I could never recall the feel of him like this.
The same old moves felt different. He gave me no space when trying to block my shots.
When he had the ball, instead of going wide to avoid being guarded, he drove into me, forcing my fingertips to graze and touch and attempt to stop.
And he did it all with a knowing grin on his dumb, handsome face.
All that to say, thanks to Jake’s outrageous cheating, the score was tied up nine to nine. I had the ball.
“We have to win by two points,” Jake claimed, bending over and casually pulling the bottom of my shirt his way to wipe the sweat off his face. I protested loudly before pushing him away.
“One point. This isn’t ping pong.”
He grinned. “My court, my rules.”
“It’s not your court.”
“I think we can both agree that I own this court tonight.”
I wiped at the sweat on my own forehead. “Fine. I’ll win either way.”
He motioned for me to start the game. I began dribbling, though I didn’t move anywhere.
I kept my gaze intense. This was the only part of the game where Jake gave me a little space.
It wasn’t until I began approaching the basket that he moved into me, boundaries becoming nonexistent.
If I was going to win—and it was important that I did—I couldn’t be distracted.
Except, Jake seemed to understand what I was about, and before I could line up to take a shot, he bolted toward me.
I scrambled forward, attempting to run around him, but instead, he caught my arm as I passed, fouling spectacularly and pulling me backward and into his body.
Before he could steal my ball, I threw up a wayward, one-handed shot.
I watched with bated breath as it made its way closer before sinking into the basket.
My arms shot into the air in triumph while Jake groaned and released me.
“You are the worst kind of cheat.” I bumped into his shoulder as he passed me.
“My ball,” Jake said at the top of the court.
He eyed me as he dribbled in place before taking off directly toward me, into my space.
He held his arm out to block my attempts at swiping the ball from him, but he got what he was after—me close enough to grab.
Without warning, he dropped the ball and bent forward to hoist me up and over his shoulder.
“Hey!” I smacked his back as I dangled precariously over one shoulder. “Put me down.”
“What?” Jake asked, casually bending to pick up the ball, effectively making me squeak, almost falling from his grip before he righted himself and began a slow walk, dribbling toward the basket.
He had no reaction to my desperate jabs into his side as he sauntered toward the basket, effortlessly scoring with a one-handed rebound.
Even though he had tied us up and it was my turn with the ball, Jake casually shot a few more baskets one handed, walking around the court as though he didn’t hold a five-foot-eight-and-three-quarters-inch woman on his shoulder.
I let him have his moment, attempting not to seem affected by his nearness. But when he bent down to stretch his hamstrings, leaning one way and then the next, before picking up the ball, intent on shooting a one-handed three-pointer, I’d had enough.
“Nancy!” I growled.
“Oh, too bad you said that. I was just about to put you down.”
“Jake!” I smacked at his back until he finally relented, putting me down gently on the pavement before sprinting across the court, away from me.
He was right to run.
I attempted to put my shirt and shorts back into their place while trying to hide the fact that my face felt blazing under the glow of the court lights.
“I believe it’s tied up now, Shelby May.”
This time, Jake allowed me no space. Everywhere I went, he was there.
I moved right, he moved left. Into my space.
His legs grazed mine. His hands found my hips.
His bare stomach pressed against my back.
Though he didn’t lift me or bear hug me again, my heart settled into a constant pounding at his nearness.
My body was in a state of jolts and jumps.
Maybe I did have a problem with touching people.
My self-reflection made it that far before he stole the ball from me, drove to the basket, and sank the winning shot.
“That’s not fair,” I protested as he walked toward me, hands in the air like he was LeBron James and not my scheming friend winning by way of cheap shots.
“What’s not fair?” he asked, his eyes wide.
“You got in my head, and you know it.”
“You called me for help. The more practice you have at games like this, the fewer people get hurt.”
A laugh bubbled out of me. The fact of the matter was that I, Shelby Tucker, a mid-range college basketball player from a small school, had just gotten beat TWICE by two irritating men tonight. And that was something I could not tolerate. I refused to go to bed with those stats chasing me.
“Alright. I can’t do this anymore. We play again to five.
Your shirt stays on, and if you try to pick me up, or give me a bear hug, or touch me in any way, it’s an automatic win for me.
” My tone changed from diplomatic to slightly deranged as I shoved my finger into his chest. “That includes full bragging rights. And I will make sure everybody in this town knows about my win. Got it?”
A grin stretched across his face as he lifted his hands up in peace. “Got it.”
“Now put your shirt on.”
I waited until he had covered his chest with his shirt.
He seemed to be moving in slow motion, letting the shirt drop across his shoulders and down his stomach, and an irritating smile crossed his face.
Though I did find him and his know-it-all ways aggravating, the spark was back in Jake’s eyes.
And I couldn’t help but think it might have all been worth it.
But sometimes a girl has to take care of business.
“Now toss me the ball,” I demanded.
I killed him.
Five to zero.
It felt good.