Teardrop Shot(16)

I stayed frozen for a second before lifting my head. I gulped again.

“You don’t think I’m a freak?”

“No, I do. You’re crazy.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up, and holy shit, my heart flopped over in my chest. There was the Reese Forster that was in Person magazine’s Most Beautiful People issue. There was my fantasy for so many years.

“But I’m hoping you’re harmless.” He laughed softly, his hands pushing down on his hoodie so it stretched from his shoulders to accentuate his physique.

God.

This guy.

I had watched him running up and down the court so many times—I knew his body was lean and muscled. He was solid, but in front of me, he seemed larger than life, with bright hazel eyes. They had a golden ring of honey around the iris, and a smattering of blue and green.

Long eyelashes.

High and angular cheekbones.

A strong jawline that could cut paper, or glass—maybe not glass, but definitely something else. Go back to the water. Man, I had just envisioned him with droplets sliding down his face, lingering at the dip of his chin where it came to the most perfect square end. There was a slight scruff on his face. He hadn’t shaved that day or the day before, giving him a very rough, slightly alarming, and so authoritative air.

I sighed to myself, my fingers curling around the counter.

I was ogling.

I didn’t care.

After all the questions, this was nothing. The guy must’ve been used to it by now.

A slight growl vibrated out of him, and my gaze snapped up to his.

His hair. I was distracted again. It was the perfect short length and a dirty blond color. It matched the honey in his eyes.

In some ways, it wasn’t fair.

No guy could measure against him. None.

“Would you stop fucking leering at me? I don’t do camp groupies.” He thrust a hand out, pointing behind me. “I want a ball. Now.”

I snapped to attention, jerking around. I grabbed a ball and thrust it at him. “Here.”

He took it and rotated swiftly on his feet, pushing the ball to the ground in a bounce as he stepped over it at the same time. He began dribbling as he went to the court—so smoothly, so naturally, it was like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Legend.

L-e-g-e-n-d.

There was a sign-out sheet campers were supposed to use when they took equipment, but sorry, Keith. No camp policy for this guy, though I did scribble his name on the paper. My hand was trembling so much it looked like a chicken scratch.

Oh well.

It’d have to do.

He ignored me and began shooting hoops. He’d toss the ball up. It’d go through the basket, with a nice swishing sound, and he’d grab it off the first bounce to follow with a quick layup.

I was riveted.

My whole body had been shaking, but he kept going, and going, and going, and after what must’ve been an entire hour, I felt calm.

I almost wanted to freak out, realizing that, but nope.

Watching him play, the same motion over and over and over again, was soothing. He had such control every time he touched the ball. He never struggled. The ball answered his commands seamlessly, as if connected to him through a mental string.

The room was rippling with the power he had, but as I relaxed and lounged back against the wall, I began to pick up what else was coming off of him. And I felt anger. His anger. His bounces were hard and forceful. His shoulders were tense, so was his jaw as he kept his head bent down.

All pro players were phenomenal athletes, but when Reese was on the court, he was different. I should know. I watched him enough. He could move the ball around like it was magic, sending it through legs, outstretched arms, and behind his own back. There were times when he was in the Reese Zone, as the announcers liked to call it, when he almost toyed with his opponents. He could send off a quick round of sharp and abrasive dribbling, then suddenly, whoosh, that ball was either in the air or in the hands of his teammate and his defender had barely blinked.

I watched him for another hour, and he never slowed down.

Bounce, bounce, pivot, then up for a layup. Sometimes, he fell back and tossed it up in a pretty arc, what would be a teardrop shot or a floater. Other times, a hard hit against the backboard. Just over and over again.

A quick rebound.

Or back to the three-point line.

The free-throw line.

He just kept on.

After a third hour, he started to slow down.

Another player came in the side door, but he saw Reese playing, and after a second of watching him, he eased back out.

I didn’t think it was coincidence that Juan Cartion came to stand outside another side door a few minutes later. He made no move to come inside. It was apparent he was there to watch his best friend, and when Reese switched from shooting hoops to walking up and down the court dribbling the ball in short, angry staccato beats, his friend left.

A normal person would’ve lost the ball in two seconds.

Reese never did.

My phone beeped.

Dazed, I grabbed it to see what the alert was.

Trent: Headed to my room. Where are you? I need to get to bed, early flight in the morning.

He wanted to come and say goodbye. I was weird about goodbyes. Just tack that on to the long list of what made me special, but it was what it was. I hated saying goodbye. Despised. Loathed. Strongly opposed. You name it, I was. There was a reason for it, and as I remembered and felt that pressure building in my chest, I shut it down.