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

[22] Rat Bastard

I glared.

I knew I was a bit of a wild card, but even the cringiest weirdos could find love. I wasn't that bad.

"So you gonna tell me who it is then?" He pressed as he pulled on the top of his head, stretching his neck from side-to-side.

I folded my arms across my chest. My mind racing for an appropriately biting retort, but then I blinked at him. The color drained from my face.

I couldn't tell Roscoe-freaking-Tate who my crush was — aka his ride or die, his childhood best friend — Taylor Arroyo. Based on his response there, he could never know. He couldn't even get close. I had to throw him off my trail.

Damn it, Aria.

What the hell were you thinking?

The corners of Roscoe's mouth twisted into a delighted smile, not the courteous kind, the twisted kind, like when someone accidentally stumbles upon your kryptonite.

He adjusted his grip on the ball, palming it easily, and nudged me in the shoulder with it, "Tell me who it is. If I know him, I got you. I'll bring the popcorn, it'll be crack up watching you try to flirt." He chuckled at the thought, cradling his gut.

Despite the artificial breeze circulating through the gym, my skin caught on fire. Why did he think I would be so bad at this? Reflexively, I unzipped my hoodie to get some air.

"I can flirt." I rejoined defensively. Roscoe cocked his head, like he was humoring a small child. "I just don't waste my skill on scrubs like you."

Before he could respond, I snatched the ball away, eyed the backboard and threw up my shot.

Roscoe matched my make. Again, and again, and again. He made it look easy. Effortless. To him, every shot was mathematical. If he missed, he could tell you exactly what went wrong — his wrist didn't flick right, his guide hand was too heavy, his knees weren't bent enough, his elbow wasn't tucked in properly — his game was that locked in. It didn't make sense. How could he be that precise in one area of his life and then not anywhere else?

When he started shooting out by the logo, I started collecting letters.

Hands perched on my hips, I yowled under my breath as he sank yet another shot from a mile away. He retrieved his own rebound and returned to the scene of the crime.

If I missed the next basket, I was dead.

Roscoe couldn't just pass me the ball, no, he had to hand deliver this one. He practically levitated as he closed the distance between us. I gave him a flat stare, dropping my hands when I realized he wasn't going to toss me the ball.

He pulled up beside me, pivoted towards the hoop and examined it with one eye. "You bend those knees more, you might—" His voice cut off as he looked back at me, his eyes snagging on my zipper again.

He was probably judging my wardrobe, channeling his inner Whitney Drew— well Tate, this is what happens when you kidnap a woman from her house.

Annoyed, I slapped the ball out of his hand and stepped into position. He straightened, his gaze flickering between me and the floor.

I squared my shoulders. Took a calming breath. Then let my shot fly.

It was beautiful. The angle was perfect. The back spin was artful. My arch was nice. But I just didn't have the power. Not at that distance. My shot air-balled.

"Damn it." I hissed and snatched two fistfuls of my own hair, ripping most of it out of the tidy little braid I wore.

From behind, I heard Roscoe whistle. I was not in the mood. My word was my bond, and I would keep it. But that didn't mean I had to be happy about it.