“I wanted you to play here,” I admit, a little too quickly. Owen’s lip twitches in response. I train my eyes back on the counter, running the dish towel along the perfectly clean surface, then tucking it in one of the cabinet doors, smoothing out wrinkles and anything else I can think of doing that will keep me from making eye contact with Owen after what I just said.

“We should play,” he says. I give in and look up. He’s shoving his hands into the front pocket of his dark gray hoodie, his feet sliding closer to the back door. “Come on. Game of HORSE.”

“Game of…what?” I ask.

Owen stops at the door, his hand on the knob. “HORSE. You know? I shoot and if I make it, you have to shoot from the same spot and make it. HORSE? You never played HORSE?”

“Never even heard of it,” I say. “And that doesn’t sound like a game I’d be any good at. You said I shoot and make it, but that...that doesn’t happen when I play basketball.”

His lips slide into the same sweet grin he wore when he first entered my house, then he gestures over his shoulder and opens the door. “Fine, we’ll play PIG instead,” he says.

“You’re just making shit up now,” I say, grabbing the zip jacket from the stool in the kitchen and pushing my arms inside. Owen laughs as we shut the door, and he doesn’t stop until we’re standing directly under the hoop, his ball in his hands.

“I’m not making shit up,” he says. “You earn letters when you miss shots. You play PIG to make the game shorter. We’ll practice with PIG.”

“This sounds…pretty stupid,” I say, my brow pinched.

“It’s not. It’s fun. I promise. Here, you take the ball and go first,” he says, pushing the ball into my arms. I’m instantly mortified, because I know he’s going to see me shoot and miss—horribly. It was one thing to miss a shot in front of his brother. Andrew sucked as badly as I do. But Owen is good. I’ve watched him play, with guys taller than him. And he’s going to laugh his ass off when he sees me attempt to make a shot.

“Is there a shorter word?” I ask, looking at the ball in my hands and then up at the hoop. Owen laughs lightly.

“No, PIG’s as short as it gets. Don’t worry; you’ll be fine. Go on, take your shot,” he says, stepping back a few paces and blowing into his hands to warm them.

I am going to miss. There’s no doubt about it in my mind. My only question to answer is how badly do I want to miss? I feel like it would look less awful if at least I attempted a farther shot, so I cross the driveway to a crack that runs down the middle, lining myself up a good eight or nine feet away from the hoop. I prop the ball into my hands, practically balancing it in my fingertips in front of my chest, then with a deep breath, I heave it forward, coming nowhere near the hoop and sending it off a jagged brick on the garage wall, bouncing down the driveway and into the street.

Yep. Mortified.

Owen’s hands have stopped moving in front of his face. He’s frozen, looking at the space where the ball trailed by him, his eyebrows slightly raised.

“I told you I wouldn’t be good at this game!” I say, honestly a little upset. I’m more upset that I’m upset over something so trivial, but I’m embarrassed, and the longer it takes Owen to talk, the worse I feel.

“That wasn’t bad,” he starts, looking out to the roadway where the ball has come to a rest in the gutter. “It wasn’t good. But it wasn’t bad. Here, hang on.”

Owen jogs down the driveway to the ball in the road, his long legs moving him quickly. I like watching him move.

I like watching him move!

He dribbles the ball as he jogs back toward me, and a few times, he raises his eyes to look at me, but never for long.

“Okay, so first, hold the ball in front of you—like this,” he says, forming my hands around the ball, moving my stiff fingers clumsily into place. I’m more focused on everywhere he’s touching me to even understand what he’s doing or saying. “Next, take a few steps closer. You need to start somewhere small.”

Small. Right. Small. I swallow while he stands behind me and puts his hands on my elbows, pushing me forward, closer to the hoop. His breath is on my neck. There’s a ball in my hand, the air is cold, and all I can think about is the fact that when Owen breathes, a light fog comes out, and it passes by my ear and cheek and I want to taste it.

“This isn’t going to work,” I say, once I realize how far away I still am from the hoop. He’s going to make me try, and I’m embarrassed all over again.