Alley-Oops I Think I'm Falling in Love (With the Wrong Guy)

The next morning, like every weekday morning, I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, threw my hair into a ponytail, then slipped into my practice uniform.

The rest of my family were still fast asleep, except for my dad — he worked the graveyard shift. He'd be on his way home soon, but for now, the family car was out of commission.

I didn't mind walking, particularly in the summer — the birds chirped cheerfully overhead, the city sounds were quiet, and that crisp morning air was good for the soul, it was refreshing.

I looped my bag over my shoulder, kicked into my Nike slides, then headed out the door. The sky still bore the marks of a vibrant sunrise that melted into a darkened sky.

Instinctively, I skipped the fourth and fifth steps — they had rotted out and it was just a matter of time before they collapsed. My eyes were cast above, soaking in the beautiful colors of the dawn, when I collided with something — or someone — at the bottom of the stairs.

I let out a startled yelp as my legs got tangled around the stranger and I tumbled right over the top of him. I frantically pushed up onto my hands and knees, ready to bolt, when I heard that all too familiar growl of irritation.

I flipped over; one sandal was gone, and my bag was twisted around the only remaining banister. Luckily, I'd landed in the grass, so I only had a few grass stains to show for my clumsiness. The man was shielding his head, but I recognized him immediately.

I sucked in a breath.

"What the hell?" I hissed as Roscoe dropped his arms and looked at me as if I were the problem here.

Perhaps I'd fallen harder than I thought — this didn't make any damn sense.

He picked up the discarded sandal which had fallen in his lap.

I scrambled forward on my knees and snatched it out of his hand. He furrowed his brow at me.

"Not a morning person, huh?" He asked with a smirk.

He chuckled at the scathing glare I sent his way as I jammed the sandal on. I climbed to my feet, brushing the clumps of dried grass off my shorts. "What are you doing here?" I demanded.

Roscoe pushed off the bottom step and my eyes  followed him as he shot upwards, higher and higher, like a beanstalk sprouting from magic beans. He loomed over me, swaying gently from side to side in the dim morning light. The sight of that enormous human lurking on my doorstep at the butt crack of dawn was unsettling. What prank was I about to walk into?

"What do you think I'm doing here?" He replied, lazily throwing his hands up to gesture at the porch steps.

He spotted the duffle bag dangling on the railing and reached for it. I lurched forward, grabbing it before his grubby hands could sully it. He shook his head and let out a long-suffering sigh.

Clutching the duffle bag to my chest, I finally took the time to inspect him. What possible reason could he have for being here?

The hood on Roscoe's aquamarine sweatshirt clung to the crown of his head. I could just make out the hem of his practice jersey poking out beneath it. His pearl-colored basketball shorts hung low on his hips, much lower than he usually preferred, and his black tube socks were bunched at the ankle, almost like he hadn't bothered to pull them up properly. For someone that always had perfectly disheveled curls, his hair looked remarkably unkept. There was no mistaking the dark circles under those red eyes.

I squinted up at him, lowering my bag. I stepped in closer, trying to confirm my suspicion — and the origin of that sickly sweet scent. Roscoe eyed me warily.