I snort at the idea. “Do I look like I’ve seen a hockey game?”
“Appearances can be deceiving. I have a friend who plays for a team, and he has a game on Tuesday. Maybe we’ll go.”
“Well, if it’s after you fuck me, you better get the most comfortable seats in the world.”
Jackson’s laugh is so loud, so booming, that I have to turn my head to fight back my own answering grin. He shows me aroundhis house, pointing out guest rooms and an office that’s covered with photos inside. He tries to lead me away, but I step inside because I’m nosy before I’m anything else. Photos of Jackson with young men in basketball gear dot the walls. In most of the photos, he’s dressed down in workout gear with a whistle around his neck.
I look over my shoulder at a seemingly shy Jackson. “Coach Daddy?”
Jackson scoffs. “Coach Harris.” He steps forward to stand beside me, gazing fondly at the photos. “After the injury, I took up volunteering in the city for kids who don’t have figures like me in their lives. Solid people that are there for them.”
“And you probably donate not just your time, but money as well, right?”
Jackson smiles softly as his gaze dips down to mine. “You know me too well already.”
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. “You should be proud of this. It’s an important thing that you do for the people you help. It's one of the reasons…” I clear my throat awkwardly. “One of the things I like best about you.”
“This kind of reminds me of something else I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh?”
Jackson turns serious, hands dipping into his pockets. “That feeling you get when you walk into a room and feel like everyone’s waiting for you to have a seizure? Like everyone is watching you? I know that feeling better than anyone else. I’m large and Black; sometimes, I walk into a room and feel like everyone is afraid of me just because I’mme. It’s different, but it’s the same.”
I swallow hard at the emotion his words carry. It’s so easy to look at Jackson and just see someone so perfectly together; no cares in the world. But I’m slowly learning that the depth insideJackson is what is making me slowly, and all at once, fall for him. The kids he helps. The way he cares for me. He’s beautiful inside and out.
“Do you feel that way in Clay Springs?”
Jackson shakes his head slowly. “Not as much as I expected. But also, sometimes, Harper, people aren’t going to like us together. It’s a possibility. One you should be prepared for when the time comes. Okay?”
“Well, fuck them.”
Jackson’s eyebrows furrow for a moment, and he smiles softly, inching up his lips. He ducks down to kiss me, soft and slow, and I fight against the urge to tug him down closer so that I can kiss him the way I really want. When he pulls away, that odd look is back, almost as if I’ve surprised him again.
“Thank you, Harper.”
I blink slowly at him. “For what?”
“Being you.”
Jackson tangles his fingers with mine to continue showing me the rest of the house. There’s even a small basketball court on the first floor. Honey once again gets the zoomies after the hours spent in the car, but this time, she slips and slides all over the black linoleum floor.
I grab a basketball off the rack at the end of the court. “One-on-one?”
Jackson spins in the middle of the court with a dazed look in his eye. His eyes flit from the ball and up to my eyes. For a brief moment, there’s a flash of pain in his gaze that tears my heart up. Gym was a class I barely passed in high school. The seizure excuse got me out of playing most sports, but basketball was one I never minded. At least until the guys got so competitive and gross that having the redheaded seizure twink on the team was no longer a novelty and more of an annoyance.
Jackson holds his hands out, wiggling his fingers in a signal for me to give him the ball. Fat chance. I run past him and jump at the free-throw line, grinning wildly when the ball swoops easily through the net.
“Would you believe me if I said that was pure luck?” I say with a half grimace, half smile.
“Absolutely not.” Jackson’s shoulders tremble with a laugh. “Where did that come from?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Sure you do, punk. Show me again.”
I grab the ball from the floor and jog over to stand at the free-throw line again. This time, I half-ass it, but still, the ball makes it through the hoop, even after hugging the rim for a second. Jackson comes to stand beside me, both hands on his hips.
“Do you miss it?” I ask softly, not wanting to upset him.
