Not So Nice Guy(25)

“How many?”

“Five. Read the sign. Next.”

“Here!” Bianca says impatiently, shoving a pile of tickets at Sam. “Just take them all.”

Sam feeds the tickets into an empty coffee can then hands Bianca three balls.

She’s about to let one loose when Sam cuts in again. “Hey! Scoot back! You’re supposed to stay behind the white line.”

Bianca misses every one of her throws. Her balls land with soft thuds in the grass and when Sam turns to pick them up, she’s wearing a big ol’ smile. Our gazes lock when she comes near the booth to pick up a particularly bad toss, and that smile fades.

“What?”

“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” I say, tilting my chin toward the line.

Her eyes narrow into slits. “You know they just want to see you in a wet t-shirt.”

“Funny, that’s the same reason I wanted to sign you up for the dunking booth.”

“NEXT!” she shouts.

The Freshman Four each take a turn, and not one of them hits the target. The crowd is starting to grow anxious. Like a medieval mob, they want action. They’re out for blood. Sam picks up another round of balls and turns to take them to the next contestant, but then she hesitates, spins on her heel, and studies that target. Her head tilts and I can see her mind at work. “Maybe the people just need a little tutorial.”

She takes one hesitant step toward it.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Another step.

“Samantha Grace Abrams,” I warn.

It’s no use. She takes one more step then proceeds to feign a huge, slow-motion tumble in which she trips forward and has to break her fall with one thing: the target.

The platform disappears out from underneath me with a quick whoosh and then I drop into the water.

Fucking hell. Warm front or not, it’s still February. The water is cold.

When I surface, Sam’s standing just on the other side of the tank. We’re at eye level. She’s sweet and innocent, a baby lamb.

“Oops.”

“If you step any closer, I’m bringing you in here with me.”

Her eyes widen and she scurries back to the line of contestants.

The dunkings are sparse throughout the rest of the morning, until the Freshman Four subcontract the throwing work out to a few sharpshooting baseball players they were able to find. “Just helping raise money for the education foundation!” they explain, fanning themselves while I clamber back onto the platform. “It’s all for…for the kids.”

Additionally, Sam dunks me at least a dozen times by herself. Any time I grow courageous and toss out a barb or a flirtatious comment, I go under. By the end of my shift, my t-shirt is plastered to my skin. My hair is slicked back. I feel invigorated and refreshed. By contrast, Sam is sweating. Her eyes stick to my wet shirt and then she peels them away slowly. A moment later, they slingshot right back to where they were.

“How you feelin’ down there, champ?”

“Hush up, you.”

A replacement arrives to relieve me of my post: Mr. Jones, the potbellied basketball coach. As soon as we swap places, the platform creaks and the line disperses. People scatter and flee the scene.

“Aw c’mon now!” Mr. Jones teases. “Just ’cause I don’t have washboard abs like Mr. Chemistry Man over there?”

When I reach Sam, she hands me my towel and keeps her focus on the sky.

“Here, cover yourself. You’re indecent.”

“I’m wearing a bathing suit and a t-shirt.”

“Yes, and women have been going into shock all morning at the sight. I’ve heard the first aid tent has run out of beds, so just do us all a favor.”

“Us?”

“Shut up. C’mon, you’re going to treat me to lunch for subjecting me to the last two hours of torture.”

“Hold on, I have a dry t-shirt I want to change into.”

I lead us into the deserted field house behind the carnival. Sam crosses her arms and watches as I shake out my hair and tug my shirt off overhead.

“WHOA! Warn a girl, will you?”

I shake my head and bend down to riffle through my bag for my dry shirt. I take an obscene amount of time. Sam fidgets and groans, and eventually she bends down and yanks the bag out of my hold.

“Here, just let me.”

We’re so close, and I realize now that Sam’s not completely dry either. She’s been standing next to the booth all morning getting splashed. Her white t-shirt clings to her body the same way mine did. I can see the outline of her pale pink bra, the curve of her breasts.

“You’re dripping on me,” she says, though her voice has lost all of its edge.

“Sam—”

“Hold on, I’m going to find it.”

She thinks my gruff tone is from annoyance, but she’s wrong. I’m seconds away from peeling that shirt off over her head. Any other time, I’d do it, but there are students just outside. The timing isn’t right.

“Ah, here it is!”

She stands and holds the shirt out to me with a proud smile. I force my gaze north of her neck.

“That one’s for you. I knew you’d get wet, so I brought two.”