Page 8 of ClickBack

Giselle stands at the neighboring game. “The clock is making you rush.”

“It keeps throwing the ball back wrong.”

“It’s returning your property. Set your feet.”

She picks up a ball and makes the shot. Then she makes another. Her blouse moves with the release, the small tank beneath it doing very little to help me remember why I’m standing there.

“GiGi.” Zion looks betrayed. “You been practicing?”

“Yes. I come here every Tuesday in a wig.”

A few of his friends switch sides to watch her. She misses the next shot and goes after the rebound without blaming anybody. I like that more than the first two makes.

The woman in scrubs joins them. “Ma, can we get through one party without you humiliating my child?”

Ma.

I look from one to the other. I had them down as sisters. Giselle catches me working it out and keeps shooting.

Zion spots me. “J, you saw that, right?”

“Saw you rush half your shots.”

“Don’t take her side. You just met her.”

“I’m taking the machine’s side. It can’t defend itself.”

Giselle laughs and misses. She points at me. “That was your fault.”

“So now there are exceptions.”

“There are always exceptions.”

The game ends. She turns with a ball in her hands, and I move close enough to take it when she offers it to Zion. She lets me have it instead. Our fingers touch against the worn rubber. She notices, looks at me, then makes a show of checking the clock above the games.

“You off work?”

“On a break.”

“How convenient.”

“Very.” I nod toward the machine. “You got another game in you?”

Zion answers for her. “Yes.”

She doesn’t look away from me. “I don’t remember asking my publicist.”

“Play him, GiGi.”

“He’s a professional.”

“And you’re winning.”

“Against you.”

The boy puts a hand to his chest. His friends start laughing, which settles it. He has to get his dignity back somehow, and apparently I’m the equipment he needs.

“One game,” I tell her.