Eliza
The stained, off-white backboard and rickety hoop stare back at me blankly, like they’re wondering why in the world I’m standing in front of them with a basketball.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
But it’s one of those ugly early summer weekends, where it’s cloudy and cool, and even the sand and picnic warriors aren’t interested in the beach.
After a full week of work and a morning spent writing cover letters for two positions Suzanne found, I needed a break from the screens and the house. Or, boat.
I could’ve gone to one of the vacation towns sandwiching Garnet Shores, but they remind me of the neighborhoods I used to visit with my friends.
The ones with cute cafes, shopping, and pretty sidewalks.
The thought of doing that without them only reminded me of my current predicament, and all that did was twist my gut.
It didn’t help that Sami had texted this morning, asking how I was. She didn’t respond to my reply, probably because she’s at brunch with Kyle and the others—something we’ve always done on Saturdays.
So I grabbed the lone basketball hiding in the boat cabin’s storage bin and walked here, trying to pretend this is completely voluntary and not as pathetic as it feels.
Fresh air. Exercise. Some good old-fashioned fun.
Kids beg their parents to let them do this stuff, right?
I shoot from the free-throw line. The ball hits the rim but bounces awkwardly, flying out to the side. I watch as it lands and rolls all the way to the tree line surrounding the court.
Fresh air. Exercise. Some good old-fashioned fun. I mentally recite the words as I make the long jog to retrieve the ball.
My next free-throw is an air-ball, bouncing twice and coming to a stop on the grass behind the hoop. An improvement from flying all the way to Timbuktu, maybe, but come on. I used to be a starter. I should be better than this.
I snag the ball and march back to the free throw line, and that’s when my motivational mantra dies like a plant that’s caught fire.
Because two cars roll into the dirt lot, and the worn forest-green pickup looks a lot like the one I see parked daily in the oyster farm’s lot.
The other is black and shiny, and the driver looks awfully familiar from my internet searches.
Anson Gold. Grayson Gold. Both here. With me.
Karma, what have I done to you? Was it throwing mud at Grayson’s face?
My worst fears are confirmed when they pile out of their cars with another man I don’t know, all dressed in athletic clothes and sneakers.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Is it too late to dart into the trees and pretend I was never here? As if in answer, all three heads turn in my direction before I can move.
Wave, you idiot.
I force my hand up, because Grayson is here with my boss and I need to act normal and respectable, not like a panicked, anxious mess. Anson returns the gesture as the men make their way over, basketball in hand.
The ball of anxiety in my chest stretches bigger with every step they take. Between my tours and Grayson’s mercy with the mud, we seem to have entered a fragile truce, as if he’s finally accepted my presence on his farm.
But every interaction still requires me to be on top of my game, and if my last two shooting attempts are any indication, I am, in fact, at the very bottom of my game.
Like, below sea-level. I refuse to make a fool of myself in front of him, never mind my employer—who may as well be auditioning for a cologne commercial right now.
Anson Gold is like the Boston, Gucci-model version of his brother.
Where Grayson is shaggy and rugged, Anson is clean-cut and controlled.
His dark hair is cropped short in a buzz cut, and neat stubble covers his jaw.
His face is a little more square, but with the same tawny eyes, straight nose, and confident stride I’m coming to know, he’s very obviously Grayson’s sibling.
He’s also the type of man I’d normally give a quadruple-take if we crossed paths on Boylston Street.
But I find my attention settling on Grayson instead, who’s traded his perpetually-stained work gear for a clean tee with a charity’s 5K plastered on the front.
His ball-cap is backwards, which means there’s no shadow to hide the way his gaze rakes over me as I approach.
“Boston,” Grayson greets. “Play ball as much as you play pool?”
Anson raises a brow at his brother before extending a large hand my way. “Eliza, pleasure to meet you in-person.”
“You too.” I return his handshake firmly, as if that professional firmness will make up for the fact that I’m wearing skimpy running shorts in front of my boss.
Anson has built an impressive miniature empire in an incredibly short amount of time. Despite looking casual in athletic gear, this man is something of a shark. His reputation is one of ruthless business—which is why I trust a reference from him will be valuable.
“How have you been enjoying the job?”
It’s laughable how loaded that question is. Ignoring Grayson in my periphery, I smile. “It’s been a wonderful experience. Thank you again for the opportunity.”
“That’s great to hear.” His tone suggests he sees right through my bullshit. “Not sure if he’s swung by the farm yet, but this is our friend, JJ.” Anson gestures toward the third man with them. He’s handsome. Short blonde hair, cut military-style. Kind blue eyes. Clean-shaven, strong jaw.
Very Captain America-esque. If Captain America had a sleeve of tattoos.
He gives me a good-natured grin and offers his hand. “Heard a lot of great things about you from Gray, here.”
My eyes skate to Grayson as I shake his hand. “Great things, huh?”
I can’t tell if it’s annoyance or amusement painted across Grayson’s face. “What can I say? Farm wasn’t complete without you.”
“You’re too kind.”
“No, really. I thought we could use a new skiff, or maybe upgrade our sieve. But you and that phone is what we really needed.”
“So glad that you recognize that already.”
Beside him, JJ’s smile has grown, while Anson’s evaluating gaze moves between us. Right.
“Well, the court’s warmed up for you. It was wonderful to meet you both,” I say a little too brightly as I skirt around them.
“Hold up.” JJ’s voice cuts my escape short.
My eyes close in disappointment before I school my face and turn around.
“You don’t have to leave,” he says. “Happy to share the court. We’re not kicking you out.”
“I don’t feel kicked out. It’s just—” An excuse about having plans runs across my mind, but Grayson and Anson know I have no friends or family here. “I have work to do.”
Grayson’s brows crash together. “It’s Saturday.”
My chest tightens again, because he’s right. It’s Saturday—a day for seeing people you love and laughing and smiling. “Exactly. A great opportunity to get ahead,” I push out.
He crosses his arms. “No. A great opportunity to give yourself a break, because Anson was just giving me the stats from your first three weeks, and they’re pretty damn good. ”
“Extremely good,” Anson clarifies, though he’s frowning. “And I don’t want you working beyond your contracted forty hours per week. That’s why it’s in the contract.”
“Okay,” I say, because being the reason for a frown on my boss’s face is never a good thing. I flounder for a new excuse to leave. “I don’t want to crash your game. And I have, um, grocery shopping to do.”
I don’t.
I did it last night, when I had zero Friday plans. I’d technically had a video call date with Jane, but she cancelled on me.
Oblivious to my plight, JJ waves me off. “You won’t be crashing our game. If anything, you can make it happen. Our friend dropped out on us, and we can’t play with just three people. Wanna step in?”
The word no is dying to burst from my chest, but I’m out of flimsy excuses, and Anson’s involved.
The anxiety filling my chest drops into my stomach, tying it in knots. If my two shooting attempts are any indication, I’ve lost every ounce of basketball ability I ever had. And there’s no intoxicated Kenny around to save me in the middle of another game.
I go with some honesty. “I’m a little rusty.”
“So are we. You’ll fit right in,” JJ says.
I certainly don’t fit in with these three chiseled bodies. Grayson isn’t the only one with arms that belong on a protein powder label.
“I really don’t want to intrude,” I try.
“Well, there’s no game without a fourth person.” When I hesitate, JJ has the wherewithal to look a little sheepish. If a sturdy, six-foot-something man with a tattoo sleeve can look sheepish. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pressure you. It’s just an invitation.”
Grayson jerks his chin. “What is it? You nervous?”
I stare at him, wishing it was appropriate to throw the ball straight at his face. He should be cheering at my attempted departure, not daring me to join them. Yet here he is, poking at my pride like an annoying five-year-old.
It works, like I’m sure he knows it will.
“Not nervous,” I say, committing to my demise.
I’m not pretending to be any good, so I can handle losing, but I won’t balk in front of him and Anson.
“Just managing your expectations. I’m a liability, not an asset.
” I glance at Anson who seems intrigued at this turn of events.
“I also want to note that my basketball abilities are not in any way correlated to my professional abilities.”
God, I sound like such a loser.
The smirk that ghosts over Anson’s lips is either appreciative or amused. “Noted.”
JJ points at me. “You’re with me, Eliza. We’re gonna kick their asses so bad, they’ll have to change their last name from Gold to Participation Trophy.”
Leaves rustle in the wind. A bird squawks overhead.
Then Anson says, “Was that supposed to embarrass us, or you?”
“Hey, trying to keep things polite for the lady. It limits me.”
“Trust me, the lady can handle it,” Grayson snarks. “You might even inspire her.”
“I have all the inspiration I need with you,” I say sweetly.
“Must be why your work has been so exceptional,” Anson comments with mild amusement. “All that inspiration.”
JJ rolls his eyes. “Man, you can’t help but slip work into every conversation, huh? It’s like a fucking reflex.”
Anson raises a brow. “Know what else is a reflex? Mopping this court with your chatty ass.”
“Hope you brought some of your fancy wine to wash down those words when you choke on ‘em.” JJ taunts, jogging onto the court. “Two-minute warmup.”
I follow him, tossing my ball when he opens his hands for a pass. “When I said I was a little rusty, I mean I haven’t touched a basketball since high school.”
He shoots, and the ball swishes in. “Don’t worry. Grayson’s always sore from work, which slows him down. And Anson will be too busy thinking over his next business deal to do much damage.” He retrieves the ball and passes it to me. “If anything, you’re leveling the playing field.”
“I’m fine with leveling it. I just don’t want to sink our end.” I line up, shoot, and completely miss.
My face floods with heat, but JJ isn’t put off by my failure. “Your follow-through,” he says, returning the ball to me. “You’re cutting it short. You want your hand to point all the way through the shot.”
I nod, remembering I used to be good at that. I line up and shoot again, this time focusing on making a swan with my arm and hand.
The ball swishes in.
JJ tosses it to me again, and again, I shoot. The ball sinks right in.
“Rusty, who?” he calls out, as he grabs the ball and sinks an easy layup.
A cautious grin crawls up my cheek, and I catch sight of Grayson taking a shot—that ends as an air-ball.
Well, then.