Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(81)

Great.

More basketball.

Just what I need.

“Let’s go, baller.”

I force my body to move. Hand on the door, pulling at the handle. I use all my weight to push open the door. One leg first, then the other. Karen’s at her trunk and she pulls out a basketball, and if she wants to play one-on-one, I’m noping the fuck out.

I’m done for the day.

Dee-plee-ted.

She stops a foot in front of me, slaps me across the face. Hard.

“What the fuck?” I cry out, hand to my cheek.

“Wake the fuck up, Connor! I’m not here to baby you.” She takes the beers from my hand, dumps them in her open trunk. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to play,” I whine.

She eyes me, hand on her hip. “You have ten minutes to sober the fuck up and get back to reality. If this is how you’re going to act after every loss—”

“It wasn’t just a normal loss.”

She slaps me again.

“What the fuck, woman! Knock it off.”

“Ten minutes,” she says, setting a timer on her watch. “I’ll wait.”

I sit my ass on the ground, legs bent in front of me, arms outstretched behind me. And I look up at the stars, breathe fresh air into my lungs, again and again, and I let the coolness of it wash through me, my vision slowly returning to normal.

I ask, because it’s something I’ve often wondered, “Why did you and Ava stop being friends?”

Karen’s quiet a moment, and when I glance at her, she’s sitting cross-legged, staring down at her hands. “I don’t think we ever really stopped. Things just got too hard after everything with her mom. We couldn’t really hang out, and too many calls went unanswered, and after a while, I just stopped trying to reach out to her.” She looks up now, her eyes on me. “I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. At least I hope she doesn’t feel like I’m to blame. I tried, Connor. We all did, but…”

“It got too hard,” I finish for her.

She nods. “How are you guys doing?”

I shrug. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“You brought it up.”

“Then I’ll bring it back down.”

Her watch beeps, and she gets to her feet. “Time’s up.”

Moaning, I stand, catch the ball she throws at my chest.

“Where were you?” she asks, pointing to the three-point line.

“What do you mean?”

She stands around the area where I made my choke shot. “Was it here?”

“About, yeah.”

She motions for me to join her at that spot, and so I do. I stand there while she walks off the court.

“Shoot your shot,” she says.

I chuckle. “I’m still kind of drunk.”

“Do it anyway.”

I shoot, sink it.

She grabs the ball, throws it back. “Again.”

I do it again.

She returns the ball to me. “Again.”

I make the next five shots. Miss one. Then sink the next two.

When I’m done, she takes possession of the ball and holds it to her hip. “Nine out of ten and you’re drunk, Connor,” she states.

“So, what you’re saying is that I should’ve made the shot, because I know this, Karen. But thanks for reminding me.”

“No.” She shakes her head. Adamant. “What I’m saying is that you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” She throws the ball back.

Dribbling lazily, I retort, “You’re just quoting Wayne Gretzky, and that’s hockey—”

“Shut up,” she laughs out. “Now I’ve forgotten my point. It was going to be something amazing about 90% of the shots made or… something.”

“I get your point,” I say through a chuckle. “And I appreciate what you’re saying, even if it doesn’t really make sense.”

She rolls her eyes and moves toward me, hands out asking for the ball. I throw it to her and step aside as she takes over my position. She sinks a three-pointer effortlessly. “Damn. Skills much?”

Her eyes narrow. “You know I’m captain of the girls’ basketball team, right?”

“I didn’t even know we had a girls’ basketball team.”





She asked for no mercy during our one-on-one, so I beat her 21-3. I do a celebratory Steph Curry dance around her. She smirks, then says, “Hey, who am I?” She drops to the ground, on her back, and looks up at the sky. “Boo hoo. I missed a three-pointer under immense pressure, and now my life is over. Wahhh.”

I stand over her, brows bunched. “You’re kind of a bitch.”

“I kind of know this already.”

I lie down next to her, the ball between us, and stare up at the darkness above.

“What’s your favorite game of all time?” she asks.

“Umm… 1980. Game 6, Lakers versus 76ers.”

“Yesss. Magic came to play!” she whoops.

“You?” I ask.

“Without a doubt, 1976, Game 5, Celtics versus Suns.”

I shake my head. “Such a weak answer. That’s everyone’s go-to. Do you like the actual game or the fight?”