Page 37 of The Dating Charade

Jett pulled down on his jersey, grimacing at the six-inch spot against the gray. Oh, perfect. Nothing said romance like spit-up tie-dye.

“You going to pass me that ball or what?” Cassie called.

“Yeah, I’ve, uh—” He turned his chest away from her and tossed the ball, making a beeline for his athletic bag. “Go for it.”

Cassie turned and made a shot, the ball swishing through the net. “Actions speaking yet? Or are we still warming up?”

“Once you get three in a row, we’ll be done warming up.” He unzipped the bag quickly. Several toys spilled out. Drew.

He heard the net swish again as he stuffed a boat—still dripping in bath water—and about forty-seven cars back into his bag. Yanking out his water bottle, he squirted a couple drops on his shirt. Began rubbing hastily on his chest.

The spot sucked the water up and—from his angle—took on the shape of a submarine headed directly for his armpit.

“What are you doing over there? You’re not taking a water break already, are you?”

“No, no,” he called back. “Just seemed to—” He rubbed fiercely. “—have something—” The submarine was morphing into a warship. “—on my shirt.”

He stared at the water bottle for a long moment. Looked to his jacket. Imagined what it would do to him if he tried to play basketball for two hours in a coat. Considered stripping off his shirt for half a beat and shuddered at the image of himself brazenly passing her the ball like he was The Rock and knew it.

Instead, he doused half the bottle on himself. Water spread and covered the top half of his chest, turning the gravel-shaded shirt into one the color of Cassie’s cat.

Well, that solved the warship problem.

Finally, he turned around.

She saw him and stopped dribbling.

When he reached her, he could tell she was on the cusp of rolling over in laughter, yet again.

He tilted his chin upward. “I see sympathy isn’t one of your strengths.”

“Oh, I’m not saying anything. Did I say anything?” She threw him the ball. “Now, let’s play.”

Jett grinned, started dribbling, and hedged around her for the basket. She chased after, trying several times to knock the ball out of his hands before he reached the net. He made the shot.

The ball swooshed. He caught it with a grin. “Now warm-up’s over.”

For the next hour they dribbled and shot, dodged and blocked, and elbowed their way to the basket. Discreet fouls turned to overt ones as they started to snatch at the other’s shirt, take hold of each other’s shoulders. At one point Jett lifted Cassie—and the ball—completely off the floor, enjoying the feel of her wrapped inside his arms.

Three games later, and stomachs rumbling, it was time to call it quits.

“Not bad, Everson. You gave me a run for my money.” Jett wiped the perspiration from his eyes, his shirt so sweat soaked at this point all memory of the spit-up incident was gone.

Cassie, on the other hand—with that mysterious ability available only to women—managed to show no signs of exhaustion besides a damp hairline and a disheveled ponytail. She slid an arm into a long-sleeved maroon zip-up. “Not enough of a run, Bentley, if you still got me on that last one 21 to 8. Whatever happened to a little flirtatious losing? I’m the girl here. You’re supposed to drop a few shots so I don’t get too far behind.”

“Are you telling me that would’ve worked on you?” He held one hand out to the three-point line. “’Cause we can go right now.”

She zipped up her jacket and waved him off. “No, it’s too late now. I’m just going to have to throw a pity party for myself later. Where are we eating dinner?”

“Loser picks, if I remember correctly.”

“Have you been to Abram’s? Not the refined feel we’d get at Cobbler’s Steakhouse. More of a kid place. But seeing as you look like you went under a waterfall, I’d say we’re better dressed for fried okra and biscuits anyways. Don’t you agree?”

Jett nodded, all the while well aware of the way she had referenced the restaurant. It was a kid place. Given her tone, that wasn’t a compliment to the restaurant.

Kids weren’t in the cards for her, as she had made clear. What had been nice to hear a few days ago was now a point of concern. Should he tell her what was going on?

Absolutely not.