On Saturday, she drives to a grocery store she doesn't know, to buy cereal she doesn't need, then circles the park twice before spotting him.

She pulls in and watches for a moment.

He's the tallest of the six. He's guarding Mark, easily, and Mark's trying to guard him, not quite as successfully. It's like watching a chipmunk run around a tree.

He yells to the other guys in a way she's never heard at work. She wants to hear what he's saying. She knows she has no excuse for being here - no good one, anyway.

She decides she doesn't care.

x x x x x

"Over here!" He holds his hands up for the pass.

In front of him, Mark's hoping that waving his arms frantically will make up for the extra six inches Jim has on him. It hasn't worked yet.

Then Mark freezes and frowns toward the sideline. "Isn't that Pam?"

When Jim looks over, the ball bounces off his chest into Mark's hands.

"Sweet!"

Jim looks dumbly at his empty hands. He waves to Pam, who's smirking, before taking off after Mark.

x x x x x

When they take a break, Jim jogs over to where she sits.

"Hey!"

"Hey," she smiles.

"What -?"

"Oh." She points vaguely over her shoulder. "I was at Wegman's."

"Yeah?"

"They had something I needed..." She pictures the raisin bran in her backseat.

"Ah."

"...yeah, for muffins?..."

"Ooo, big fan of muffins."

"...and I saw you guys on my way home."

He nods, "So you figured you'd stop by to pick up some pointers," and nonchalantly spins the ball on a fingertip.

She hopes her voice is casual. "Well, you never know when a scout'll be watching, right?"

He stops and points for emphasis. "Exactly. Better to be prepared."

"Right."

"So you're really gonna hang out?"

"Sure."

"Cool. Well, here's what you should do. You know Mark, right? And see that blond guy? The short one? That's Brad. Watch how they play the second half. How they're the same, how they're different. Then I'll catch up with you after, okay?"

"Okay, Coach."

He grins at that and heads back to the court.

She wonders if he'll play differently now that she's here.

x x x x x

He's trying not to play differently now that she's here.

He can't help himself. Height has its advantages. He takes them.

x x x x x

She watches Mark for a while, then Jim, then Brad, then Jim again.

She can't help herself. He's tall. He uses it well.

But knowing he'll quiz her, she forces herself to concentrate on Brad long enough to note a signature move, then focuses on Mark. As soon as she sees him do the same thing twice, she smiles, makes a mental note, and lets her eyes drift to longer limbs.

Jim's movements are fluid, aggressive but graceful in the way of someone who's played for a long time. He holds the ball easily as he calls plays for his team. When he's moving, the ball seems to float between his hands, to bounce back to his fingers as though it's connected to them by elastic.

It's mesmerizing.

She snaps out of her reverie when she realizes he's walking toward her again. The other guys are heading to their cars.

She tries to think. Mark, Brad, same, different. What were the moves?

He plops down next to her on the bleachers and leans back, stretching the ball over his head. His shirt is sweaty and rides up a little.

She's having trouble focusing.

He sighs and rests the ball in his lap, then leans back again on his elbows. His cologne? aftershave? body wash? drifts the short distance to her. His knees bump together unconsciously. She decides they're different from Roy's.

"So...how are they different?"

She starts. "What?"

"Mark and Brad. How are they different on the court?"

"Oh." She considers. "Well, Brad seems pretty comfortable, but Mark looks a little...spazzy."

He chuckles. "Uh-huh. And how are they the same?"

"Um, they're both pretty quick when they change directions."

He nods, "Okay. Do you know why I had you watch them?"

She should know this. "Ummm..." He smells really good. She gives up with a shrug.

"Because they're both about your height. But, like you said, they're pretty different players. Hopefully, by the time I'm done with you...?"

Her breath catches.

"...you'll play more like Brad than Mark."

She nods and breathes again. "Right."

He grins. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"Alright, let's do it."

x x x x x

She's wearing her Keds, which he's seen, and shorts, which he hasn't, and something floral closer to her skin, which makes him want to bury his nose in her neck.

"Okay, let's start with basics. Dribbling. Essential for good ball control." He passes her the ball. "Let's see where you are."

She does pretty well, but it's apparent she doesn't play much ball.

"Let your fingertips and wrist do the work, not your palm. Like this." He mimes the motion and she loses control of the ball. He scoops it up and passes it back. "Here you go, try again."

When she's more comfortable, he has her kneel with him to practice dribbling short and fast. Over to her left hand, then back to her right. When she has a rhythm going, he says, "Now, keep dribbling, but look at me."

Her eyes meet his, then falter and move down to his neck, then his chest, focusing on the faded words printed on his shirt.

"Nope, no cheating, Beesly. Right here." He indicates his eyes.

She raises her eyes to his and feigns insult. "Cheating?"

He squints at her in mock suspicion. "You're trying to peek at the ball. Eyes up here."

She squints back in challenge and holds his eyes. She pushes harder on the ball, alternating hands. Her eyes are green and they're drilling into him. He's torn between keeping up the façade and showing her everything. He's smart enough to know that the façade will keep them on the court longer.

"Okay, now keep your eyes here, and we're going to stand up. Keep dribbling."

He rises slowly to keep her eyes on his as long as possible. Once they're standing, he reaches a hand toward the ball. Without looking, she steers it away from him.

He's inordinately proud of her maneuver and grins. "Nice!"

When her eyes stray to his mouth, he reaches in again.

x x x x x

His eyes are smiling, and his teeth are white, and her hand is batting at empty air. Which is weird because she can still hear the ball hitting the court regularly.

She looks down to find that he's taken it from her.

"How did you do that?"

"Practice. So now...passing. Here's the thing: almost everyone you'll ever play with will be taller than you. So you need to take advantage of your height. The easiest way around a tall defender is a bounce pass. Like this." He bounces it into her hands. "That keeps the ball out of the air where the guy guarding you could grab it." He steps back. "Okay, imagine there's a guy right in front of you. Pass the ball around him to me."

She leans sideways and bounce-passes to his knees.

"That's it, just a little harder this time."

She tries again. This time he catches it at his waist.

"There you go. Now to the left. Good. Dribble a little in between. Good."

Bounce, catch.

She likes the force of the ball when it comes back from him. She can almost feel where his fingers have touched it.

Pass.

"How you feelin', good?"

Bounce, catch.

"Uh-huh."

Pass.

"Ready for some shooting?"

Bounce, catch.

"Sure."

Pass.

"Let's hit some hoops."

x x x x x

She follows him to stand under a basket.

"Now, shooting is a serious business. Bet you didn't know there's an oath."

"Really."

"Oh yeah. Everyone who plays ball takes it. Can't shoot without it." He holds out the ball. "Place your right hand on the ball and repeat after me."

Her fingernails are shiny on the ball. Their hands make a sandwich around it.

As he speaks, she repeats each line back.

"I hereby swear to respect the basket... and the goal on which it stands.... I recognize as solemn truth that the backboard is my friend,... and I shall strive to use it wisely.... Yea, though I see superstars use nothin' but net,... I shall not swish."

She giggles.

"Finally, I accept that my coach knows best..."

She nods. "I accept that my coach is delusional..."

"...and I will do whatever he says..."

"...but I will humor him for now..."

"...because he's also pretty cute."

"...because Brad already went home."

"Amen."

"Your mom."

He sighs in mock disgust. "You're lucky I'm tolerant. I've never heard such a travesty."

She raises her eyebrows innocently.

"Uh-huh. Anyway, I meant what I said about the backboard - use it. That's why it's there. Start right here underneath and shoot against the board. Like this."

She follows his lead, then continues to shoot as he moves her around the court, always a little farther from the basket.

"Let your arm do the work, and follow through with your wrist."

She asks him to demonstrate, several times.

She seems to catch on eventually. She's a pretty good shot, and he wonders briefly if he's being taken.

He decides he doesn't care.

"Ready for some one-on-one?"

x x x x x

She gets the ball first. They start at half-court.

He steals the ball almost immediately.

"Remember, your best offense against me is to stay low."

She leans down, and then can't decide whether to focus on the ball, his hands or the basket, and he steals it again.

"Lower."

Frustrated, she crouches lower and dribbles by feel, shouldering him in the hip as she rounds him. But now he's behind her, and she can't see him so she panics a little and runs toward the basket. She stops under it and makes a textbook shot.

He's laughing. "Except for the charging, double dribbling, carrying, and traveling, that was excellent."

She beams.

x x x x x

He takes the ball at half-court and realizes he's forgotten to teach her how to guard someone taller than herself. He's kind of enjoying what she does on instinct.

It involves a lot of jumping up and down.

A good distractive technique, he decides. It brings her repeatedly face to face with him, and there's a little bit of grunting and gasping. And, of course, bouncing.

He silently thanks his parents for his excellent peripheral vision.

He stalls a bit longer, pretending to be blocked a couple times, then fakes her out and shoots. Score. Tie.

x x x x x

For a reason she can't quite explain, when she gets the ball, she turns her back to him and her goal.

He makes a sound like he's surprised or intrigued or both. She dribbles and waits.

Suddenly, he's close behind her, and she understands why she's facing away from her basket. It's because his arms are reaching over her head, around her shoulders, under her arms. And because he keeps bumping into her. And because his voice is laughing hoarsely in her ear.

His breath is hot on her neck, and she reminds herself that when she turns around, it should be because she's going to try to score. A basket.

When she does turn, though, he steals the ball and heads for his goal.

x x x x x

He thinks he's pretty smooth until she knocks the ball away mid-dribble. Classic shorty maneuver. He chases her ponytail toward the ball.

x x x x x

She grabs it and squeals as he lunges for it. She dodges sideways, and heads toward her goal. His stride is too much for her, though, and now he's blocking her progress. She's afraid to dribble, so she holds the ball tightly, trying to avoid his hands, which seem to be everywhere. When he grabs the ball and tugs, she loses her balance, falling into him. He topples backward, his arms windmilling, his eyes alarmed. He hits the court a moment before she lands on him.

x x x x x

He lays stunned. He's waiting for the pain to hit when he realizes she's on top of him. Fully and completely on him. The thought brings his eyes open and air back into his lungs. He gets a mouthful of her hair as he sucks in the first breath.

x x x x x

Her eyes are closed tightly until she feels his chest expand under her. She opens them to the red surface of the court. She takes a few tentative breaths before raising her head. As she does, she sees his ear, then the damp hair sticking to his temple. A faint line between his eyebrows. His eyes taking her in. His mouth open.

She looks back up to his eyes.

x x x x x

She's asking him, telling him, and all he can do is squeeze her waist. He closes his eyes and her lips are soft on his.

x x x x x

His lips are warm and tentative. She raises herself to look at them, then leans down to kiss his chin and the faint sweat on his upper lip. She closes her eyes as she licks it from her lips. His hands slide down to grip her hips. When she opens her eyes again the look in his is so hungry she feels a tremor in her thighs and realizes she's straddling him. A small sound escapes her as her fingers rake into his hair.

He's salty on her tongue.

x x x x x

She's sweet on his tongue.

Her breath is coming in puffs, and her knees are squeezing him, and he knows he's moaning but he can't help it. Because she's hot against his waist, and because her breasts are soft on his chest, and because he can feel her thigh muscles working under her shorts. His hands slip down to feel her bare legs, his fingertips brushing the soft skin behind her knees.

She gasps and pulls away.

x x x x x

His eyes are closed and he's holding his lips together firmly, waiting. To be rejected. To lose.

She brushes his hair from his forehead until he opens his eyes.

She tilts her head. "So, um, what was the score?"

He looks confused. "I...think it was a tie."

She nods and raises her eyebrows. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that mean overtime?"

He looks at her intently.

"Coach?"

Tie game. Overtime. A slow grin spreads as he catches on. "Yes. Overtime." He shifts her slightly and looks around the court. "And, I think, in this case, a change of venue."

She nods and whispers closely, "I think so."

He kisses her quickly. "I claim home court advantage."

She laughs and winks. "Race you there."

x x x x x

Neither notices, even during overtime, that they've left the ball at the park.