Page 16 of Curveballs & Kisses


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“Efficient.”

I grin. “All right, grab the handle.”

She does, and I move behind her, close enough to guide, not close enough to crowd. At least, not intentionally.

“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Pull up slightly. Not a lot, maybe an inch.”

She lifts her shoulders, tensing with the effort.

“Good. Now hold it there.”

“I’m holding.”

“Now push right while you lower.”

She follows the instruction, and I reach around her, adding my strength to hers. The door resists for a second. It is stubborn, and for a moment, I think it won’t yield, but then suddenly, it gives way with a metallicclunk, sliding smoothly into place.

Ava exhales, stepping back, and I realize how close we’re standing. Close enough, I can smell her shampoo, something floral and sharp, maybe jasmine, and see the faint smudge of ink on the side of her hand.

“Thanks,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.

“Anytime.”

She locks the door, testing it once to make sure it holds, then turns to face me. The streetlight casts shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw and the curve of her mouth.

“So,” she says, tilting her head. “Good game?”

“You watched?”

“I heard the crowd from inside. Hard to miss the chanting.”

“‘Steele Fury,’” I say with a grin. “Trademark pending.”

“Catchy. Very subtle.”

“I didn’t come up with it. Blame the marketing team.”

“I blame you for encouraging it.”

“I encourage winning. The chanting is a side effect.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. It is small, maybe reluctant, but genuine. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer ‘relentlessly optimistic.’”

“I prefer ‘delusional.’”

“Potato, po-tah-to.”

We stand there for a moment, the space between us shrinking without either of us moving. The street is quiet, eerily so, thekind of silence you only get in cities after midnight, when the noise fades, and the world feels smaller, more intimate.

“You should go,” Ava says finally, her voice softer now. “Your coach wouldn’t be thrilled to find you here.”

“Probably not.”

“Definitely not.”

“And yet,” I say, stepping closer, “I’m still here.”