Page 11 of It’s All in How You Fall
When I glance back, Alex is smirking at me. “That wasn’t a pity compliment.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Mmmhmmm.”
The smirk morphs into a full-on grin with a side of dimples. “Okay, it was more a knock on Nat than a pat on the back for you, but that three of yours had some major juice on it.”
“Whatever.”
He tosses the ball at me, and I catch it—mostly with my boobs, but my hands secure the thing. “Play again?”
“Are you trying to see how many times you can dust my ass at horse before the Rodinskys extract themselves?”
“Maybe.”
“Based on our last game, we might hit ten rounds before they can physically move down the street.”
Alex thinks for a millisecond. “Or we could play actual basketball. Tank top versus tank top—don’t worry, I know which team you’re on.”
That makes me smile but I hesitate, narrowing my eyes against the sun’s glare to stare at him, seriously searching for any clue that Dad put him up to this. But Dad’s not nimble enough for this conversation to be more than a coincidence. Basketball was something he rattled off like he wasn’t aware I don’t reach the five-feet mark unless I’m in heels. “AndIknow you’re more than a foot taller than me. I’ve lost before I’ve begun.”
“I’ve seen you tumble. Just flip over me.” Alex’s hands are on his hips and he’s waiting patiently.
I bounce pass the ball back to him. “Alex, I don’t do ball sports.”
His dark eyes sweep away and he sort of cough-laughs. “I really think there might be a better way of phrasing that.”
Oh God, okay,yes.
I totally didn’t think of how that would sound until it was already out of my mouth. And I’m talking to someone who has, you know—not that I’m thinking about his… God. Ugh. “Gymnastics is not…,” I clarify, my words strangled and my cheeks a solar flare, “this.”
“Of course not. This is the stuff of mortals—my granddad is seventy and plays every Sunday after church with his buddies.” That’s actually really impressive—I want to see Alex aged fifty-plus years hitting that floating shot. “There’s no such thing as casual, pickup gymnastics.”
This hits me in the gut in all the wrong ways—how I wish gymnastics were a sport I could do into my seventies. That feeling passes; while my double back won’t stay with me over the decades, other pieces of the sport will. The stretching, the child’s play. Which gives me an idea. “Actually, there is.” I stab him in the sternum. “Alex Zavala, I challenge you to a handstand contest.”
Suddenly, he’s verbally backpedaling worse than I did at the balls comment, but props to him for not physically backing away from my finger. “Let us not forget that as you pointed out, I’m what you might calltall—my center of gravity is like a foot and a half above yours and you have a decade of practice on me.”
“Right, like how your height and twelve years of organized basketball didn’t just help you toast me in horse.”
He shakes his head, smiling, and I needle him some more.
“What are you? Scared to lose?” If knowing Alex Zavala for the majority of my life is good for one thing, it’s knowing that questioning his fear of losing is always a bluff worth calling.
“No, I’m scared I’ll win and you’ll punch me. Tiny fists hurt.” He’s had a lifetime on the other end—his older half sister, Lily Jane, and I could totally swap closets without getting a tailor involved. Genes are weird.
I smile up at him. “There’s no way you’re winning, giant.”
He smirks, eyes shooting for a second to Nat, who is literally miming a dramatic elbow-to-the-face foul with Ryan as Liv drink-laugh-coughs into her handheld bottle. Yeah, we have the time. “What are the rules?”
I toss him the same look he had when I inquired about the specifics of horse. “I count to three, we kick up, and the person who stays up longest wins.” A moment of hesitation crosses the planes of his face, and then he bounce passes the ball into the grass by the water bottle bench. I take that as a go-ahead. “One, two, three.”
On three, Alex’s hesitation is back. I’m in the handstand for a few seconds before his feet go up, his legs bent and loosey-goosey as he puts too much juice on it and is past vertical immediately. He spins out of it, tank top peeling down in a flash of golden belly in my periphery as he crashes split-legged to the court—Jordans and booty smacking one, two, three.
Meanwhile, I don’t waver, fingers flexing to grip the warm sand-blown concrete. Balance extends from the ends of my fingers through my locked arms, my elbows tucked to my ears, belly button pulled to my spine, tensed legs, toes pointing against the soles of my flip-flops.
Like riding a bike. And damn, it feels good.
Alex immediately gathers himself and kicks back up like his fall never happened, but his attempt is too soft and he fails. His third try hits vertical for a full second before his shirt flops into his jutted chin, his back arches, and he’s down. Again. “Oh my God, how do you do that? Can you do that all day? Take phone calls? Drink a milkshake?”
I don’t laugh, because I’ll totally fall over, but I’m not so rusty I can’t have a conversation. Well, sort of. “Triple yep.”
