“I’m Aera,” she introduces, bowing her head the slightest, “Nathan’s girlfriend.”
Nathan is a name I recognise - he’s one of the boys who used to go to my school. I’m pretty sure we’d been in the same role-call rooms once, in seventh or eighth grade.
“Nice to meet you both,” I express.
“Marlon’s told us quite a bit about you,” Tiana says, kindly, “Well, he’s told the boys a lot about you, so Charlie tells me.”
I dip my head, a little abashed. I know that this ruse is mainly for our families, so Marlon truly has no means to amplify the act so much in front of his friends. Still, it touches me.
“Oh? What has he said?” I ask, trying to hide the smile in my tone.
“He said that you were a little brat as a kid,” Aera chimes, a little amused, “But that he was a little dickhead to you too. But you both matured, and now you’re so much more than he thought. That you’re smart, a little fiery but you keep him in check.”
He said all that?
My eyes skitter toward Marlon. His basketball jersey clings to his skin, the sweat creating a shiny sheen on his face, hishair sticking ruthlessly to his forehead. His eyes were crinkled, furrowed in concentration, but the subtle quirk of his lips revealed all too well that this was fun for him. Something leaps in me, and I swallow the sharp feeling.
“Can’t believe he called me a brat,” I groan, lightheartedly, and Aera and Tiana laugh along with me.
“Ugh, Charlie better be talking about me like that, though,” Tiana interjects, “Not the brat part. But the nice parts.”
“I’m sure he does,” Aera offers, “If he doesn’t, he’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” I add, a little sheepishly.
Tiana tilts her head toward me, curious.
“I really liked Christine, and I was sad when I heard they broke up,” she says, suddenly. My eyes widen at the mention of Christine, but Tiana waves her hand, “Don’t worry, I mean it in a good way. Not that Christine wasn’t lovely, I do miss her sometimes. I talk to her still, less than before though. But, I don’t know, with you, Marlon seems more chill. Laidback. Light, you know?”
I chuckle, a little nervous, brushing a strand behind my ear, “I mean, I’m sure they really liked each other. I only met Christine a few times.”
“Of course they did. I just mean - you bring out a different side of Marlon, and it’s cute to see,” Tiana says, smiling.
A shrill whistle blows through the space, snapping us from our conversation. Marlon’s team scatter themselves across the court as the referee stands in the middle, clutching the basketball. Marlon himself stands at the centre, opposite to someone from the other team. His eyes skitter toward me, for a mere second, and he smiles. I can’t help it. I smile back.
Then, the game begins.
The referee throws the basketball toward the sky, and in a feat of energy, Marlon launches himself up, arm stretched outward. The player opposite to him does the same, but Marlonis taller, and quicker. He slaps his hand against the basketball, toward Charlie, who catches it. My breath catches, as the intensity of the game ramps up. I’d never been one for sports, yet I find myself leaning forward, cheering out loud everytime he or his teammates take hold of the ball. Once the first quarter concludes, Marlon is drenched, with beads of sweat coating his skin. As he approaches where the girls and I are sitting, I reach into his sports bag and frantically pull out his towel and water.
“Hey,” he huffs out, grabbing at the towel and water.
I inch away from him a little, torn between being disgusted at his state and in awe of his performance. I’ve always known he played basketball, but actually seeing him on the court, caught up in the passion, in the energy of the game is something else entirely.
He notices my aversion to his figure, and smirks. He wipes the sweat from his body with his towel, before throwing the used towel at me, catching me off guard. The towel lands on my face, and I feel the moistness of the fabric against my skin.
“Heygross!”
Rapidly, I tear the towel from me, and whip it at him. Marlon gasps, dodging the attack, before laughing. I pretend to vomit, doubling over dramatically.
“Oh shut up Garcia, I saw how you cheered for me on the court,” he coos, taking a sip from his water bottle. I ignore the droplet of water that trickles from his mouth, and furrow my brows.
“So? Doesn’t mean anything,” I declare, crossing my arms.
Marlon quirks a brow, before lowering onto his knees, eyes levelled with mine. Reaching forward, he pinches my cheek, and I swat his hands away.
“It means you were swooning over your hot basketball player boyfriend, of course,” he retorts, and I scoff.
That’s when Aera’s voice chirps beside me.
