I tucked my hands in my coat pockets and zeroed in on the Baroque pivot. It was centered on a curving red line on the far side of the gym, the edges so pronounced that if I hit them at the wrong angle, it would be like walking into a doorframe. Across the room Addie was explaining the finer points of Baroque events to Eliot, who looked like he was longing for escape.
A basketball rolled into my ankle. I picked it up, surprised by the weight of it. Tentatively I dribbled it, listening to the rhythmic whump as I memorized the new frequency. Maybe I could explore it during school, when Addie wasn’t around to catch me.
Out of nowhere Simon swiped the basketball away mid-bounce.
“Gotta keep your guard up,” he said, evading my attempt to steal the ball back. “I didn’t peg you for a basketball fan.”
“I’m not.” I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. His hair was damp and disheveled from the shower, his expression curious. “This is my first time. Congratulations, by the way.”
He glanced over at the scoreboard. “It was okay.”
“You won. By twenty points.” I was pretty ignorant about sports, but even I knew that was a good thing.
“True.” He made a show of looking around. “Want to know a secret?”
“Always.”
He leaned in, his fingers skimming my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear. “It’s more fun when it’s close.”
I ordered myself not to blush. “Is that so?”
“Winning’s always better if you have to work for it.” He handed me the ball. “Shoot a free throw.”
“I can’t make a basket.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“In PE. Not pretty.”
“Don’t be so sure. Watch.” He took the ball back and stepped to the line. I watched the shift in him, the way his awareness narrowed to the strip of hardwood, the ball, the net. I’d been on the receiving end of that kind of focus the other night, and the memory stole my breath.
He dribbled twice, raised the ball with his fingers spread wide, and shot, wrist snapping down and hands hovering in the air. I heard the rustle of the net and the bounce of the ball, but my attention was riveted on Simon, who dropped his hands and smiled.
“Very nice,” I said.
“That shot won the state championship last year,” he said. “In overtime.”
“I think I remember hearing about it,” I said dryly. No one had talked about anything else for a week.
“Best day of my life, winning that game. They even let me cut down the net.” He scooped up the ball and pressed it into my hands, his fingers covering mine, his frequency strong and true. “Now you.”
“This is your thing, not mine.”
The smile spread, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Scared?”
I lifted my chin. “Hardly.”
“Then let’s go. Feet on the line, Sullivan.” He spun me toward the free throw lane, poked a finger into the small of my back, and prodded until I was standing where he had been. “Show me what you’ve got.”
The ball barely made it to the backboard. “See? Hopeless.”
“Take off your coat,” he ordered. “Your range of movement is restricted.”
I struggled to pull my arms out of the sleeves, and he helped me, pulling it off with practiced ease and a wolfish grin.
“Okay, you’re right-handed, so put your right foot here”—he nudged my boot with the tip of his shoe—“and point your toes toward the basket.”
My limbs felt stiff, like a puppet’s, like I’d forgotten how to move.
“Bend your knees a little,” he said, setting his palms against my shoulders. “Arms up. You’re shooting with your right hand—the left is only there for balance.” With every command, he touched me, the gentle pressure of his fingers making me light-headed. “Give it a try.”
The ball sailed into the backboard and careened away. “Told you.”
“Nobody likes a quitter.” He retrieved the ball, spinning it like a top. “So, you came to cheer me on in our home opener? I’m touched, partner.”
“My sister wanted to come.” I tilted my head toward Addie and Eliot, who were half watching the map, half watching me, and wholly unhappy. There was no sign of Monty—but I’d let Addie deal with him this time. “I’m grounded, unless I’m with her.”
“And here I thought you cared.” He tossed me the ball and stood directly behind me, his arms coming around to position my hands. “Fingers spread out. You need backspin. And keep your eyes on the back of the rim.”
I fought the urge to turn and face him. He was the wrong Simon for those kinds of thoughts. Instead I concentrated on the solid expanse of his chest against my back, the way our hands looked together—strong hands, both of us, for entirely different reasons.
His voice was rich and teasing. “Did you do something really bad to get grounded? Please say yes.”
I stared straight ahead. “Long story. Suffice it to say I have a problem with authority.”
“Shocking.” He laughed. “Shoot, Del.”
His hands guided mine, and the ball arced through the air, sliding through the net with a faint whisper.
“I did it!” I whirled to see the smile break across his face, mirroring my own.
“With my help,” he pointed out. He tugged the little braid I’d woven into my hair. “Grounded for scandalous reasons? Cutting class? I’m getting a very clear impression of you.”
“Oh?”
“You’re trouble.” He made it sound like a good thing.
“Funny. That’s what people tell me about you.”
“You should listen,” he said softly. His skin radiated heat, as it had the other night, and the memory made me bold enough to step closer.
“Simon!” Bree ran up, throwing her arms around his neck. “You were amazing! It’s like they didn’t even show up, you guys were so good! And that three-pointer was incredible—I swear, the scout from Arizona didn’t even look at anyone else.”
Simon eased away, his smile fading. Bree tipped her head to the side and gave him a beseeching look. “Can I get a ride with you to Duncan’s party? Cassidy has a ton of people in her car already.”
“Yeah, sure.” He turned to me, a note of apology creeping into his voice. “Party. At Duncan’s.”
“I heard.” Cold settled over me, and I scooped my coat off the floor, avoiding his eyes.
“You could probably come, if you wanted. It’s pretty low-key.”
“Duncan won’t want a bunch of people he doesn’t know showing up,” Bree cut in. “We can’t go around inviting everyone.”
For one crazy moment I thought he might do it anyway. He had enough social currency stockpiled that he could have brought a leper—an actual leper, not just a social one—and people would have been okay with it. He hesitated, and his choice was obvious.
I beat him to the punch. “Grounded, remember? And high school parties aren’t my scene.”
“Really,” Bree said, dripping sarcasm. “Why’s that?”
I smiled at Simon, radiating nonchalance as hard as I could. “No challenge. You two have fun.”
“Del,” Simon began, but I was already heading for the door. Always better to be the one leaving.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Aside from the need to keep Walkers secret from Originals and Echoes, romantic relationships are frowned upon for another, more pressing reason: The future of our people and the Key World depend on maintaining the genetic line.
—Chapter Four, “Physiology,”
Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five
YOU LIKE HIM,” Eliot said as we sat on the front porch after the game.