Okay, rude…
Grant
It’s true. I’d be staring at you the whole time, probably wouldn’t land a single basket.
All the more reason to sit toward the back instead of the friends and family section.
Grant
Nice try, sweetheart.
We find our seats smack dab in the second row. I haven’t sat this close at a game since high school and part of me yearns to move, to be absorbed into the hundreds of fans in the stands, to be invisible. Just as I’m considering asking Jean if he wants to move to the back for the last half, Grant steps on to the court, unzipping the Lions hoodie he’s wearing over his jersey and it takes everything in me to pick my jaw up off the floor. Jean hasn’t had a problem commenting on me ogling Grant this entire game, but honestly I can’t help it.
When we’re one on one I forget how looming his presence is but here on the court, intimidating isn’t enough to describe him. He’s sort of terrifying. The hard set of his jaw has the guys on the opposing team glancing nervously back at him, and I bite my inner cheek to keep from literally drooling on the gym floor. The chorded muscles of his arms are now exposed as he throws his jacket onto the chairs set up for benched players on the floor in front of us.
“There’s your mans,” Jean says, tossing another piece ofpopcorn into the air and catching it with his mouth. As if he hears Grant looks up, his gaze finding me not for the first time this evening. Instantly, that serious scowl melts into the warmest smile that has me curling my toes. Jean sighs lustfully. “Are you sure he only swings one way?”
I giggle like a girl with a crush and, I guess, I am. It’s weird to admit, but I can’t deny the flutter in my chest every time his eyes are on me.
“Don’t even think about it,” I chide, stealing a piece of popcorn and popping into my own mouth.
Grant watches the exchange, eyebrows pinched with confusion before shaking his head with a small chuckle and I wish I could mute the entire stadium just to hear the rough timber of his laugh. Each time he’s looked over has been like a little reward, reassuring me that this is good, that I don’t need to hide away in the back. He wants me here. Fuck everyone else.
I watch as he jogs over to the huddle and can’t help my cringe at the clear power struggle between Ben and Will. Will snatches the clipboard out of Ben’s hands, as they seemingly bicker about which play should happen next and I know how this looks. Like Will is the bad guy who can’t take criticism, can’t just be a team player. I feel an undeniable pang of sadness watching him. The pain is so clearly written across his features that I want to scream at Ben to open his eyes, my resentment over his older brother leaving him when he needed him most not completely quelled, even years later. It’s not helping that he’s come back and seems to be trying to blow up every coping mechanism Will has created for himself.
“You have to let it roll off you.” Jean eyes me, understanding in his tone. I let out a long breath, shaking my arms out and trying to shift my mindset back to the present.
A whistle blows as the third quarter starts and I can’t lie, this game has had me on the edge of my seat. I remember from past conversations with Will that the rivalry with PCU was intense, but I didn’t really get what he meant until now. These guys play hard, and not just in the sense that they are highly trained college athletes. That would be normal. No—they’re willing to bend the rules, even foul their own players to get a basket. Plus, they’re massive. I can tell from where I’m sitting that Will is pissed as, once again, number 11 slams into his side, launching the ball into the opposing team's area of the stands.
Coach Wilson seems to be following the trend, as even he is more aggressive than usual, getting in the ref’s face as the fans scream that the call should be a technical foul. Jean’s eyes are wide as he shovels popcorn into his mouth.
“I thought you didn’t want to be here…” I laugh.
“Shhh…it’s getting good.”
I watch as Coach points to Grant and hear him yell, “Fielder—block that little asshole.”
Grant uses two fingers to give his coach a playful salute, switching spots with Will and it’s obvious that Grant’s size is a major advantage. His broad muscled chest clearly intimidates the guy he’s meant to block and I have to be honest, it is so fucking hot watching him play. Even Jean lets out a low whistle which is met by an elbow from me.
The buzzer sounds and the opposing team’s point guard hurtles the ball toward number eleven. Like he’s some sort of magical giant, Grant intercepts the pass with one hand and the cockiest smile I’ve ever seen. Jean, as well as the rest of the crowd, loses their absolute shit as Grant dribbles the ball up the court, his footwork dodging every block so gracefully that I swear it’s like he’s dancing down there. The crowd holds a collective breath as Grant goes for a three,the ball barreling through the air and hitting nothing but net. I jump to my feet, grabbing Jean’s hands and scream with the hundreds of Astor Heads as the buzzer signaling the end of the quarter rings.
The players gather around their respective coaches as the game enters the final quarter. Grant doesn’t spare a glance at me this time, hands on his hips, and it’s apparent he’s no longer messing around, his brow creasing in concentration as he listens to the plays being called. All of them are looking to Ben for guidance on what to do next, even Will, who clasps Ben’s hand at the end of the huddle giving him a friendly pat on the back. It’s interesting how a literal ball can bring together men who normally want to rip each other's heads off.
Grant surprises me by finding my eyes before moving into position, giving me a soft grin, as if to tell me not to worry, he’s got this, and I swear I could melt into a puddle right here in front of the entire arena.
“Get a room,” Jean says coyly at my side. I roll my eyes, continuing to beam down at the court.
Grant steps in front of number eleven again but this time, instead of the intimidated look he had on before, he seems to be…talking? I watch as Grant’s entire stature changes, his posture going rigid, fists clenched as number eleven’s eyes rove the stands and finally land on me. He points squarely at where Jean and I are sitting and I know I’m not imagining it because a girl to my left asks her friend, “Is he pointing at us?”
My face heats, but I’m slightly relieved that it’s not apparent who he’s looking at. He blows a kiss in our direction, shooting us a wink and not even a second passes before Grant has his jersey bunched in his fists and shoves him hard, number eleven tumbling to the floor. The entirearena is on its feet as the player grins and says something. Grant pulls the man back up with one hand only for his other fist to meet his jaw. In seconds, the court turns into complete chaos, the refs whistle barely audible over the roaring crowd, but Grant seems to be completely tuning it out. Number eleven shoves him, holding his now busted lip and Grant roughly shoves him back. The absolute frenzy creates a buzzing like sound in my ears and before I have time to think it over I’m on my feet, barreling down the steps of the stands. I just reach the bannister separating the stadium seating from the court when I see Will behind Grant, physically pulling him away from the guys on the opposing team.
The ref finally reaches them, his whistle blaring, somehow silencing the entire arena.
“You three—out!” the ref booms, pointing to the locker rooms, and I watch as Grant seems to come back to reality, his jaw tightly clenched.
Grant gives the guy one more shove for good measure before backing off, but I’m just close enough to hear him say: “Talk about her like that, again. I fucking dare you.”
Number eleven rolls his shoulders, trying to shake him off, but it’s clear that he didn’t think whatever he said to Grant before that fourth quarter whistle would’ve resulted in getting a fist to the face.
