My butt smacked the floor and I slid backward over the foul line. the whistle shrilled. Did Number 14 reach down to assist? Hell no. I would've been surprised if she had.
Right in my face, she exaggerated a grin. Baited me. Then she swaggered back to her team's bench. Girl, I thought, streaking a silent message across court, watch your ass tonight. Someone extended a hand and yanked me up.
Her team, the Wombats, was already in foul trouble. Thanks to her. ref flipped me the ball. I dribbled once, then rotated the skin around between my open palms. It was second skin to me. I'd been shooting hoops with my brothers since I could walk. By the time I was ten, I was beating the crap out of them. It was height, yeah, but instinct too. I was born to it.
My toe caps leveled the foul line. I shadowed the stripe. Microscopic advantage, if anyone dared to measure. I sighted the net, then rocked back on my right heel and gripped the ball; squared my elbows, gentled the leather, talked the ball in; made love to it; released.
Hahhhh... An owl swooping through the forest at night. It sights the prey, dives in for the KILL.
Muffled cheering from the crowd.
Barracudas up by three.
I glanced sideways to my left, to check her reaction. She bent over her haunches and tugged at the hem of her shorts. Long, sculptured legs. Hard, like mine. 14 flexed, and her quads rippled sweat.
At the catch in my lower stomach I exhaled a swift breath. Focus. Don't get distracted.
Bonus shot. I dribbled once and spun the ball around in my hands. Callous palms. Tentacled fingers. As I loaded for release, urging my baby on, 14 straightened suddenly in her stance and twisted her head to bore eyes into me. I couldn't help looking. She smiled big white teeth.
My shot sailed left. Chunk. It clipped the rim. Damn. Damn her. It bounced up and out.
The Wombats rebounded and thundered down the court. 14 scudded to a squeaky halt outside the three-point line and reached both hands up for an incoming pass. I cut in front of her and lunged for the ball. My fingertips nicked skin, but she anticipated my move and jokeyed her body sideways into perfect position, snagging the throw. An inch and I would've had it. She spun to shoot, but I planted my feet and mirrored her moves.
She seesawed. I rocked. I windmilled my arms. She passed off over my head to one of her guards, then bumped me hard on the hip, hooking my ankle and tripping me up.
I maintained my balance; stayed with her. We closed in on the basket. In the paint, I muscled under her arm and clipped her chest. Wicked elbow. She chuffed. She was taller than me, but I took advantage by seeking out her vulnerable spots - gut, throat, ear. Breasts were off limits, much as I wanted to go there. We played physical, contact. Hard, but not dirty.
She slammed her shoulder into mine and knocked me off point again. The ball arced into her waiting hands. As she laid up her shot, I sprang like a cat and clawed it off course. We both watched it spike in the air and plummet, tripping the backboard. She dove for the rebound, but I got the solid first and shagged the ball. Squeezing, I caressed the solid mass to my chest.
Charging up the court, lungs filling, feet pounding, sweat spraying, hair flying, ball, skin, heat, friction, driving, diving, dribble, racing down, down. Ball. Up. In.
The game. Play. Bodies clashing, gliding, sliding against each other. Grunting, groaning, crying out. Keening, squealing, primitive animal sounds. The pungent smell of sweat - mine and hers. Slick, sticky neck, arms, hands. And always the breathing, huffing, chests expanding. Gorging, groping, cutting, jostling for position. For place, for power. Down, down, deeper, farther. Onto her, into her. Rush.
The rush. We were on. Giving all.
For the game. For play.
We hurtled the space between us; clashing full frontal, we collided and crunched to the floor. We rolled onto each other like wrestlers, soles screeching, stabbing, scrabbling for the ball, knocking arms, heads, bones. Then the ball trickling away out of bounds. The whistle shrilling.
Ref called, "Jump ball." We - 14 and me - we looked at each other and smiled.
Killer smile. She knew the effect.
I got up fast and thrust out a hand. SLAP, she grasped it. I yanked.
For a moment she balanced against me, her arm fused to mine. Sizzling skin. Muscle twitch, contraction.
A slit-eyed sideways glance from her.
yeah, girl. Later. You know it.
We'd meet up, usual spot. Her court. Or mine.
In the darkness we'd play out the game. We'd trash in the heat and sweat and rush. Didn't matter who won or lost tonight. We were taking this game into overtime.