“He said Houston is his best shot at winning a championship,” I repeat, stripping all the emotion from my voice but swooning all over again inside, “but staying here is his best shot at winning me.”
“Damn, he’s good.” Lo gathers a fistful of popcorn. “The last thing I would be telling that man is that I want to goslow.”
I don’t answer but keep my head down and focus on coloring in the lines.
“More like, let’s go right now.” She squints at the television mounted on the wall. “Now, which number is he?”
I glance up from theFrozencoloring book to the television broadcasting the Waves game. The players’ backs are turned into the huddle for a time-out.
“He’s number thirty-three. It was his dad’s number, too.”
“Now his dad was a brother or what?”
“Yeah, his dad was black. His mother’s white. His father actually played in the NBA, too. He died in a car accident his second season.”
“Oh, man. That’s rough.”
We both glance at the television when the crowd cheers. August just made a three-pointer. He high-fives his teammates.
I could be there. In the month we’ve been in San Diego, August has offered Sarai and me tickets, but we’ve never gone. They’re still in pre-season, though, and this is an exhibition game. The regular season doesn’t start until the end of this month, and I promise myself I’ll go to some of those games despite the public scrutiny that will inevitably follow if I’m associated with Caleb’s biggest rival.
“I’m glad he’s having a good game.” I smile, because I know he’ll text me after and ask if I watched, and what I thought, and how’d he do.
“Hmmmmmmmm. Look at all that curly hair.” Lo slides a sly glance from the television to me, watching for a response.
I glance up again, and my heart triple times. August stands at the free-throw line. Of course, he makes the shot. He’s a ninety percent free-throw shooter.
“He does have great hair,” I admit neutrally. It’s shorter than when I saw him in Baltimore, when it clung to my fingers like hungry silk, but he was rehabbing then.
“That man is fine,” Lo says. “He could get it.”
My head snaps up and my eyes shoot venom.
“There we go!” Lo points to my face and laughs. “About damn time. I’m just trying to gauge if you’re feeling him or not.”
Oh, I’m feeling him. I’m feeling . . .everything, and it scares me to death.
“So he’s okay with you taking things slow?” Lo probes further.
“Yeah.” An involuntary smile tugs at my lips, and I drop my crayon. “You know he has a Louisiana iris at my desk every morning when I get to work?”
“Well, he’s rich. He can afford to have it delivered.”
“Nope.” I shake my head and suspect I may look dreamy. “On the way to his early morning workouts, he delivers it himself. He even leaves handwritten notes.”
“What do the notes say?”
I shrug, biting my bottom lip and caressing the blue–gray crayon that matches his eyes almost exactly.
“Simple things likeI hope you have a good day.” I giggle and feel my cheeks heat up. “Oryou’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
Are we still going slow?
I’d play you at the five.
I can’t wait for our next kiss. Remember our first?
Our first kiss ended with his head between my legs and my best orgasm to date. In a closet, no less. What could August accomplish with a bed?
