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“I don’t deserve you,” she whimpers as she looks up to me. Her green eyes are even more vibrant from the red that surrounds them.
“Oh baby,” I chuckle as I pull her into my body, nuzzling my face into the crook of her neck. “Don’t cry. What happened to my tough girl?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
“You’re turning her into a softie,” she laughs into my chest as relief washes over me. She’s okay. This is going to be good.
Lifting her face from my body, I kiss her temple, then her cheek, then her collarbone, over her tattoo. I don’t know if Logan has figured out that I’ve been telling her I love her every time I kiss the black ink, but if she does know, she’s not giving it away.
We walk over to the player’s bench to strip off our outer layers. I try to keep my gaze to myself, but Logan is only wearing a sports bra with her little spandex pants, and she knows how I feel about her tits, so it is what it is. I can’t keep my eyes off her, and she can’t expect me to.
Grabbing her hand, I lead her to one end of the court, leaving her at the three-point line. I walk over to the rack of basketballs and bounce pass one over to her as she catches it with ease.
“Oh, man,” she awkwardly laughs. “I’m so rusty.”
She dribbles a few times, crosses it over between her legs, then pulls back and takes a shot from the three-point line. She sinks it, nothing but net.
Rusty, my ass.
I rebound the ball with a proud grin on my face as I pass it back to her.
“So, tell me about him.”
“What do you want to know?” she asks as she dribbles around the arch.
“What was his name?”
“His name was John Leo.” She shoots with perfect form and makes another three-pointer.
I rebound and pass the ball to her again. The smile on my lips grows, watching her in her element.
“What was he like?”
She holds the ball against her hip as she thinks about her dad.
“He was so cool. He was honestly the best dad I could’ve asked for. People thought he was intimidating, but he was really soft when it came to my mom and me. He was supportive of me, but he also pushed me to work hard.”
She does work hard. I see how much effort she puts into school, and I would imagine that translated to other aspects of her life, basketball included.
“My dad and I were really close. We shared a love for sports. He wanted a son so badly, but he got me instead,” she laughs to herself. “Hence the name, Logan.”
“I’m sure he was stoked to have a daughter, regardless.”
“He was. But he raised me as he would have a son. Put me in every sport imaginable. He made sure I could handle myself. My mom was so upset.” She laughs at the memory. “She thought I was going to be a girly girl, but that was far from reality.” She lines up and shoots the ball, sinking another three as I stand directly under the net, continuing to catch her made shots.
“He ended up loving being a girl dad,” she adds as she catches my pass.
I love this conversation. I can see exactly what Logan means when she says her dad raised her as a son. She’s such a tomboy but still has this soft and feminine side to her that I’m guessing she inherited from her mom.
“What did he do for work?”
“He was in the wine business, but his true passion was coaching.”
“Did he also play basketball?”
“No, actually.” She laughs again while casually dribbling the ball between her legs as if it were as easy as walking. “He played football, but he picked up and learned the game when he realized that I was so into it at a young age.”
Watching her move with the ball in her hands this way is mesmerizing. She’s obviously extremely talented, and the fact that she hasn’t played in years and still has it, it’s ingrained in her. She clearly downplayed her ability. She shoots again and hits another shot. The ball doesn’t even touch the rim.
I laugh to myself as I recall the night I first met her. She had caused three spilled drinks that night, and I thought she was clumsy. This girl is far from clumsy. In fact, she’s ridiculously coordinated.
