Page 4 of Full Court Love
“Don’t worry. You’ll be seeing me around, Lu-Lu.”
CHAPTER 2
JORDAN
I’m playing with fire, and I’m well aware of that fact. But I know myself well enough to know that I won’t be able to stop, and frankly, I don’t want to. I’m known to be a player when it comes to women, and I’ve never been remotely interested in something serious. I’m good at smooth talking, keeping things light, and having flings.
This girl would not be a fling, though. In one small interaction, it’s so clear that she’s not interested in wasting her own time.
I don’t know how to navigate that.
I open the door of my crappy Honda Civic and remember the way my chest caught when I opened the gym door and met her eyes. Piercing blue eyes that felt like they were peering into my soul. I crouch down, molding my awkwardly long legs to fit into this tiny car and chuckle. I’m probably dramatizing the whole interaction.
I’m a blip on her radar, even if she’s a sonic explosion on mine.
I did my homework on her. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t already stalked her social media accounts–when you’re transferring into a new school, you gotta know who the majorplayers are. But truthfully, her accounts barely told me anything. She hardly ever posts, and when she does, it’s generic team stuff or partnerships. I couldn’t garner any personal information from it.
My Google search told me everything I need to know about her resume, though. Lucy Townes is a big deal. She’s a projected WNBA draft pick. She will likely be Player of the Year this year. She’s gorgeous, and judging from the fact that she was also an Academic All-American, she’s also smart. The conclusion I’ve drawn is that she’s way out of my league.
Plus, she has no idea who I am, although the more I consider that fact, it’s probably a good thing. My reputation doesn’t do me any favors.
It takes a couple of tries to get my car started. It’s early November, which means cold weather in Nebraska and terrible conditions for bad cars. I should be driving a brand-new Kia Telluride, but my dad ruined that deal. It’s not the worst of the things he’s ruined for me, but at the moment, it’s working its way up the list.
I shake my head, a feeble attempt to rid myself of the looming presence my dad still is in my life, even thousands of miles away. No matter how far I go, it feels like he’s right there over my shoulder, ready to bring everything crashing down. I close my eyes and breathe—eight seconds in, eight seconds out. It’s a strategy I got from the counselor I started meeting with at my old school. One of the only good things to come from that experience.
As I pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I force the tension from my shoulders with another breath. It’s better, but still shaky. My mind drifts to the YMCA game. I sought out that gym right when I got to town because I basically grew up at my local YMCA. My parents would drop me off early in the morning and wouldn’t pick me up until after closing time. I don’t blame my mom–working twelve-hour shifts at the hospital drains a person. Add supporting anangry drunk to your to-do list, and your whole life switches to survival mode. So, the YMCA was my other parent.
But here, in Maverick City, that place has already taken on an entirely different meaning. It’s where I first saw Lucy. She’s the last person I’d expected to see when I sought out that dingy place. It seems we have more in common than just putting a ball through a ring.
I guess everyone needs to escape sometimes.
Walking into my new apartment, I think about what it felt like to have her hand on my back. It sent sparks in every direction, and the blood began pumping a little too hard. I had never experienced something like that before. Remembering it brings the heat rushing right back up to my face.
The redness must be obvious. My new roommate and teammate, Tyler, raises his eyebrows when he gets a glimpse of me.
“Dude, did you sprint up the stairs? Is the elevator broken again?”
Am I that bad at hiding my emotions?
“Uh, no. I haven’t cooled down after my workout.”
An awkward silence follows. He opens up a microwavable pizza and I stand in the kitchen, trying to keep the conversation flowing. We’re both seniors–essentially grown men–yet the bonding on the court has occurred a lot more organically than off. I blurt out the first thing I can think of.
“I went and played at the YMCA. It’s nicer than the one I had back in Boston.”
He nods. “Yeah, I don’t go much, what with how nice our facilities are. But I definitely understand wanting to get away. So, did you see Lucy?”
I almost spill the bottle of water I just opened.
“Um, yeah, I did. But what… I mean, how did you know?”
My sputtering causes him to turn and face me, eyes narrowed.
“Well, she goes to play there every Saturday. Everyone here knows that. Did you play with her?”
I feign nonchalance. “Yeah—well, no. I mean, I played. And she played. But we were on different teams. So, I guess I played against her, not with her.”
My explanation was way too long. I used a million words to say the equivalent of “yes.” What possessed me to say all of that? I might as well wear a sign around that reads “Whipped.” I take a step toward my room, but Tyler calls out.