Airballs and Alibis
The gymnasium smelled like rubber and old sweat, a scent Alice had come to associate with humiliation on a near-daily basis. Sunlight sliced through the high windows in dusty gold bars, illuminating a court that had seen better decades. Sneakers squeaked against scuffed hardwood. Somewhere, a whistle shrieked, and Coach Reyes bellowed something about "hustle" that nobody bothered to obey.
Alice stood at half-court, hands on her hips, glaring at the boy currently dribbling a basketball like he owned the entire building.
Zane Whitfield had that effect on rooms. He didn't just enter them—he colonized them, one smug grin at a time. His dark hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the temples, and his gym shirt clung to broad shoulders in a way that Alice absolutely did not notice. Definitely not. She was too busy hating him.
"You gonna guard me, Bennett, or just stand there admiring the view?" he called out, spinning the ball on one finger with irritating ease.
"I'm strategizing," Alice shot back. "Trying to figure out the fastest way to make you eat that ball."
"Bold talk for someone who once tripped over the free-throw line."
"That was *one time*, and there was a…
