off the rim and back to us. Alejo reaches out and intercepts it before it has a chance to roll away.
“Concentrate,” he says to me. “Don’t be nervous.”
I pluck the ball from him and shake my ponytail over my shoulder. “Who said I was nervous?”
“I thought perhaps I make you nervous, standing so close to you.”
I give him a quick smile as my pulse accelerates. “Not at all.”
I try to shoot again, but this time the ball doesn’t even come close.
“I swear I’m good at this,” I tell him as I walk over to pick up the ball. I can feel myself getting flustered, not just because of him but because I hate to lose. It’s one reason why I never made a career of sports. I’m too hard on myself and prone to losing my temper and quitting out of frustration.
“I believe you,” he says as I walk back over to him. “You’re just doing everything wrong.”
I stop and put my hand on my hip. “Wrong?”
The tip of his tongue pokes through his teeth as he smiles. “Let me show you.” He makes the motion for me to turn around.
A wave of nerves comes over me as I turn around and step back into my position to shoot.
He comes up behind me and puts his hands — those large, warm hands — on my upper arms, moving me in place. “Just relax,” he says in a low, gravelly voice that makes my hair stand on end. “Let your body be loose. Let it be easy.”
“Loose and easy, that’s how you like it, huh?” I say under my breath.
“Loose and easy, tight and hard, I’m not too picky,” he remarks, and though his tone is light, there is definitely an undercurrent of desire in his voice.
What the hell are you doing?
“Stop overthinking,” he says, sliding his hands down my biceps and over my forearms until they rest at my wrists. “That’s your vice.”
“Vice? I have other, better vices than overthinking,” I tell him.
“Such as?” he says. His thumbs glide over the top of my thumbs. “Let them be loose.”
I try to let my thumbs be loose. I mean, how loose can your thumbs be, really?
I inhale through my nose and try to relax.
He’s not making it easier.
“I like red wine too much,” I admit.
“Who doesn’t?”
“I swear too much.”
“I swear in two languages.”
“I can eat an entire bag of sour candies in one sitting.”
“I can eat a lot of things in one sitting,” he says, and fuck me if that’s not innuendo. “Now look at the net and shoot.”
I do as he says.
The ball goes soaring right into the net, then rolls down into a hole as the electronic scoreboard starts tallying up.
“I knew you could do it,” he says to me.
I burst into a grin and scamper over to the machine, picking the ball up. I throw it to him and he throws it right back to me.
“Don’t lose the momentum, keep going. You have nine more shots. This time I’ll let you do it on your own.”
“Oh you’re letting me, are you?” I tease him.
He shrugs and steps out of the way.
I take shot after shot and in the end, I end up scoring seven times out of ten.
“I’m starting to think perhaps you were, how you say, hustling me,” Alejo says, stroking his chin.
I throw him the ball. “You’re up next.”
Alejo gets nine out of ten shots, which was to be expected, but still I’m glad I held my own against him.
“You should be resting,” Mateo’s voice booms across the game room, and the both of us turn around to face him. “You too,” he says to me.
“This is resting,” Alejo says. “Helps me relax. Why put a game room here if it wasn’t for this purpose?”
“I didn’t put it here,” Mateo says. He looks strung-out and worried, not the unflappable coach I’m used to seeing. I guess everyone reacts differently before game day. “Meet in the warm-up room in twenty minutes.”
And with that he disappears down the hall.
I look at Alejo, questioning. “Is he okay?”
“Mateo? Sí. He’ll be fine tomorrow. It’s always the day before where he seems to lose it.” He pinches his thumb and finger together in demonstration. “Un poco.”
“Thank god you seem to have it together.”
“How can I not be fine playing games here with you?” he says. “Besides, I have my superstitions.”
Now I’m intrigued. “Like what?”
“That’s for another time,” he says and starts walking toward the door. He chucks the ball behind him