“Yes, it is,” he teased, grinning.
“No, it’s not,” she insisted.
He laughed and stepped behind her. “Relax…damn. You always fightin’ me.”
“Because you always wrong.”
“You not even listening.”
“You not even coaching.”
He shook his head, walking toward her slowly, shoulders bouncing from his laugh. He stopped right behind her but didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. His presence was a heat she could feel through her hoodie.
“Turn your left foot out a little,” he instructed.
She complied but rolled her eyes while she did it.
“Drop your shoulders.”
“They are dropped,” Meadow fired back.
“A little more, cuh.”
“They are, cuh,” she mimicked him.
He gave her a look that was half-smirk, half-warning. “You gon’ let me help you or you gon’ keep arguing, Meadow?”
Her stomach flipped in ways she didn’t approve of. “Fine. Go ahead.”
She loosened her jaw, relaxed her stance and waited.
Zaire approved her ability to submit. “Now…when you swing…don’t force it…let it flow.”
“I know how to swing.”
“I’m trying to be nice. Damn!” he groaned in frustration.
She laughed before she could stop herself. He smiled at the sound. She caught it. He caught her catching it. Something unspoken passed between them.
Meadow swung again.
The ball flew farther this time.
Zaire nodded, impressed. “Aight. You decent.”
“Decent?”
He shrugged. “Don’t gas yourself.”
“You’re just mad I hit better than your first swing.”
Zaire turned fully, lips parted in playful disbelief. “Hold up. Don’t start talkin’ crazy.”
“You pulled a gun on me this morning. I deserve to talk a little crazy.”
Zaire laughed and rubbed his forehead. “You not letting that go.”
“Nope.” Her pretty lips popped. He liked that.
