Perfect Always by Tricia Copeland

Author:Tricia Copeland [Copeland, Tricia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: True Bird Publishing
Published: 2020-09-21T16:00:00+00:00

“Good morning.” Isaac’s face is inches from mine when I open my eyes.

“What time is it?” I glance to the window to see light pouring in.

“After nine. You’re such a slugabed.”

“Slugabed?”

“A lazy person who stays in bed late.”

“I’m not lazy.” I press my pillow to his face. “It’s vacation, remember?”

“Well, I’m starving.” He palms the pillow and tosses it behind him.

“I bought bagels and eggs.” Getting up, I pull on my sweater and some socks.

“Perfect.” He kisses me.

I take a minute to brush my teeth and join him in the kitchen. Making eggs and toasting bagels, we sip orange juice. He tells me we should make a plan so we get all our activities in around his workouts. Crossing to the table with my plate, I ask if I can just lie on the beach all day. I check the court schedule with my phone and reserve one for the next day.

“Basketball today?” I set the device between us.

“You’re not going to check your email?”

“No. I told you, vacation.”

“Are you scared you’ll get in or scared you won’t?”

“Don’t over analyze. I think you’re more excited about this than me. Vacation, remember?”

“Sorry.” Isaac holds up his palms. “But yes, basketball sounds awesome.”

We clean up the kitchen, change, and head to the park. It’s freezing but sunny, and as he dribbles the ball between his legs, I bounce around him.

“You aren’t going to be able to play with those gloves.”

“Fine.” I stop and take my fingers out.

“Okay, here. Let me see your skills.” He tosses me the ball.

Catching it, I dribble right-handed to the net, stop, and loft the ball towards the hoop. It bounces off the backboard and down to the pavement.

“Not bad. Try again.” Hand on hip, he studies me.

I try to focus on the ball and how I learned to shoot in middle school and not his sexy pose. Dribbling a few more times, I plant my feet and loft the ball up. It hits the front of the rim and bounces back.

“Close.”

I palm the ball. “We should just play a game. Except you only get to use one hand, your left.”

“You want me to play with my weak hand? Okay, bring it.” He struts towards me.

“Oh, I will.” Dodging around him, I push to the net, jump, and do a perfect layup.

“What was that?” He grabs me around the waist. “You’ve been holding out. And left-handed? What freak taught you to play basketball?”

“That’s one-zero, is what it is.” Backing away, I tug the ball from his grip.

“Seriously, why left-handed?”

“Because I’m left-handed.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve known you for six months. You write with your right hand.”

“Yeah, because my mom forced me to learn. Being left-handed is shameful, impure, weak in Asian cultures.”

“Freaky. Okay, well, me and you then, lefty to weak-lefty.” He snags the ball from me and runs to the boundary line.

“No jump shots, or dunks, or whatever you call them.”

“What, like this?” Skirting around me, he jogs to the hoop, jumps, shoves the ball in, and hangs on the net.

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