Last Chance Summer - Shannon Klare Page 0,47

said, snatching the box.

He shrugged and turned to lead the way outside, his tennis shoes squeaking against the tiled floors. Beside the door, a basketball and a backpack sat idly. He bent and picked both up, slinging the backpack over his shoulder as I relocked the back door.

“Were you stalking me?” I said, biting into a cookie.

“Stalking in what context?” he said.

“What do you mean what context?” I said. “Stalking. As in the behavior where you follow someone without them knowing, with some unknown reason that is both creepy and terrifying.”

“Um, no. I was actually heading to the pavilion when I saw you headed this way. Thought I’d turn around and snag us a few Gatorades. Also thought I’d help you find the path to the pavilion, since it can be tricky at night. How was I supposed to know it would turn out to be the best scare of the summer? That was just an added bonus.”

“You think it’s funny now,” I said, shaking a cookie at him, “but I’m planning payback of epic proportions. You’ll get yours.”

“Can’t wait,” Grant said, fidgeting with the brim of his hat.

We walked the rest of the path, crossing thick patches of grass and ducking beneath low-slung branches. Ahead, the pavilion loomed against a wooded backdrop. The roof’s metal apex, partially covered by a canopy of leaves, cast shadows on the concrete. Once there, Grant crossed onto the concrete first. He set his backpack on one of the wooden swings near the corner, the breeze swaying it back and forth. I set the container of cookies beside it, swallowing a last bite as Grant bounced the ball against the ground.

He dribbled, crossing the concrete in a swift move toward the hoop. The shot swooshed in the net, bouncing loud as it dropped.

“That’s called making a shot,” he said, grabbing the ball. “It’s the primary goal of today’s lesson, since goals mean points and the team with the most points wins.”

He bounced the ball from hand to hand while walking toward me. In the dark, his facial features were sharper, more shadowed. He looked good. Too good to ignore.

“Before we do anything, I need to see you dribble,” he said. “If you can’t move with the ball, what’s the point of showing you how to shoot?”

“There is no point,” I said, shrugging. “I’m a lost cause.”

“With me coaching you, you’ll get it,” he said, balancing the ball on a finger. He dropped the ball after a second, bouncing it as he closed the distance. “Pro tip number one: Remember to keep a firm grip on the ball. The closer you keep it to your body, the easier it is to control.”

He reached for my hand, positioning it against the rubber. My skin heated at his touch.

“When you dribble, you want to keep your palm slightly arched,” he said, curving my hand. “If you don’t, you’ll lose it.”

He shifted my feet so they were at an angle away from each other. “If you get in kind of a high squat, it’s easier to dribble with protection. Keep your other arm here.”

His fingers latched onto my other arm, causing goose bumps to shoot up my skin. “Think of this as your shield,” he said, moving it into a ninety-degree angle. “You can shuffle back and forth, but keep this arm here so if someone tries to swoop in and make a move you’ll have a way to defend the ball.”

“I don’t think it will matter,” I said, looking at him over my shoulder.

“We can hope for the best,” he said, grinning.

He let go of me, the sudden loss of warmth disappointing.

“Now, try and move with the ball,” he said, standing in front of me. “Remember what I said about defending the ball. If you don’t protect it, I’ll take it.”

“That’s encouraging,” I said, bouncing the ball against the ground.

Grant got into his stance, his eyes on mine as I stepped to the right with the ball close to my side. He shuffled the same direction, shifting back as I moved to the left. He let me keep it for a minute, not even bothering to lunge for it when I lost control.

After a few more rounds, he easily stole the ball before heading to the net. When he made the basket, I frowned.

“I thought the point was to make me feel better about this,” I said. “Stealing and scoring is counterproductive.”

“You didn’t protect the ball,” he said, bouncing it. “I told you I would take it