Page 2 of Full Court Love
“You’re right. How rude of me. You deserve a genuine YMCA rec ball welcome.”
I snatch the ball from Jeff, an old guy who has been a regular since the 1970s. He has a big smile on his face. All these guys know me too well and are stifling their chuckles. I’ve come to play basketball here ever since I started going tocollege at Nebraska State. It’s a Division I college in Maverick City, Nebraska, where I play on the women’s basketball team.
It seems crazy to a lot of people that I seek out the YMCA for games when most of my life is already dominated by basketball. But for me, this gym is an oasis. It’s pure basketball, with no cameras or evaluations or expectations. It’s my safe space.
Most of the guys I play with here know who I am and even come to watch me play, but they don’t treat me any differently. I love that.
This new guy is threatening the little sanctuary I’ve built for myself. He needs to be put in his place.
Or maybe I’m looking for an excuse to be in his presence a little while longer.
I can still feel his eyes on me, but I don’t meet them. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking down at me. At five foot eleven, I might be tall by female standards, but he still towers over me. I find it so hot, and I’m rather disappointed in myself for that.
I hate myself even more for the way my pulse races when he says their team can be skins. He turns to me with a wink before removing his shirt and revealing an annoyingly perfect set of toned abs. Once again, infuriating. I’ve been around my fair share of impressive specimens, but he takes the cake–although not a real one, apparently.
He definitely catches me staring this time. He cocks his head to the side, raising his eyebrows.
He whispers as he walks past me so only I can hear. “Feel free to take a picture.”
I’m flooded with a wave of embarrassment and some other emotions that have no business showing up on the basketball court.
I try to look intimidating as I step up to check the ball. Unfortunately, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome meets me at the three-point line and I’m now being forced to look at thoseenchanting brown eyes, which up close have a hint of green toward the middle.
Why I’m suddenly noticing these traits in a stranger, I don’t know. I do know that it’s going to take an act of the Almighty to keep me focused on this game.
The first possession, I simply try to avoid him, which proves to be tough considering he’s guarding me. I float around the three-point line until he sinks so deep into the lane that I end up with a wide-open three.
Nothing but net.
I jog back, acting like I don’t know he’s two steps behind me the entire time.
Yes, I’m perfectly unbothered. Totally locked in over here.
When I turn to guard him, he claps lightly.
“Impressive. I thought maybe the first one I saw was dumb luck, but you might not be half bad.”
I roll my eyes. Classic. I’ve put up with naysayers my whole life. It’s part of being a woman in this sport. Every single one of my doubters has eaten their words, and he will too.
When he tries to step out and catch the ball, I snap into competitor mode. I’m going to lock this guy down. My hand finds his back–it’s not my fault basketball is a contact sport. My fingertips graze the skin right above his shorts.
He freezes for a split second.
I do too.
I can’t tell if I’m imagining the electricity or not, but I’ve never experienced this feeling before. My hand feels warm and tingly. Butterflies erupt in my stomach. His momentum has stopped altogether. Eyes meeting mine, he looks at me with less teasing in his expression and more fire and passion. His chest rises as he sharply takes a breath. We stare for a moment too long before I hear the ball hit the wall. I pull my hand from his back like I just touched a hot stove.
The tension is broken.
We both look away, shaking off whatever just transpired between us. The ball is now rolling against the wall. Apparently, someone had tried to pass it to him during our little moment, so at least I got some payback for my turnover earlier. He raises his hand as he jogs to get it.
“My bad, guys! Sorry I misread the play.”
He’s lying through his teeth, and we both know it.
The rest of the game, we both employ an avoidance strategy. No physicality or contact needed–or wanted. At least, not in this setting.
In another setting, well…I can’t say for certain what I’d want.