Page 21

I looked good. Like, annoyingly good. Like someone had photoshopped me into athleisure and then cranked up the saturation.

The clinic was at an outdoor court in one of the inner city parks, and I could hear kids laughing and basketballs bouncing before I even rounded the corner. My plan was simple: show up, smile supportively from the sidelines, avoid Cam at all costs, leave as soon as humanly possible.

Foolproof.

I was a genius.

I rounded the corner and immediately spotted her.

Cam stood in the center of the court, surrounded by about twenty kids ranging from maybe eight to sixteen, wearing everything from worn-out sneakers to brand new Fangs gear that had clearly been provided by the organization. She was in practice clothes, hair pulled back in that severe ponytail, face set in that controlled, professional expression I was starting to recognize as her default setting. She was demonstrating a passing drill with precise, economical movements.

She looked up.

Our eyes met.

She fumbled the ball.

It bounced away. One of the kids chased it down, laughing.

For a second, we just stared at each other. The awkwardness was immediate and suffocating, like someone had sucked all the air out of the park.

I turned around and started walking back the way I'd come.

"Harper!"

Mia's voice. Betrayer. Judas. Rasputin in reincarnated form.

I stopped. Turned. Smiled with every tooth I had in my mouth. "Hey! So actually, I just remembered I have a thing—"

"You don't have a thing." Mia jogged over, already in full volunteer mode, wearing a Fangs volunteer t-shirt like some kind of wholesome camp counselor. "Come on. We need all the help we can get."

"I don't know anything about basketball. I'll be useless. I'll probably make things worse. I might traumatize a child. I might traumatize myself. It's really a liability issue when you think about it.”

"You'll be fine. Just help demonstrate some basics." Mia grabbed my arm, started dragging me toward the court. Toward Cam.

“Mia. Mia, no. This is kidnapping. This is false imprisonment. I know my rights. I watch a lot of Law & Order. I could probably represent myself in the event of—”

We hit the court. Twenty-one pairs of eyes turned to look at me. Twenty kids and one Captain Miserable, who looked like she was doing complex math in her head to figure out how this had become her problem.

"Everyone," Cam said, her voice carefully neutral, professionally pleasant in that way that suggested she was screaming internally, "this is Harper. She's... going to help with demonstrations."

The pause before "going to help" was notable. Possibly insulting.

"I'm being volun-told," I announced to the kids. "Which is like volunteering, but against your will. It's very on-brand for me."

A few kids giggled. Cam's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Harper doesn't know basketball," Cam continued, still in that careful, controlled voice. "Which actually makes her perfect for showing the absolute basics."

"Wow, what a glowing introduction. Really making me feel valued here, Captain."

"I could make you feel less valued if you'd prefer."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise."

"You know, I bet you say that a lot. 'It's a promise.' Is that your catchphrase? Are you trying to make it a thing? Because I don't think it's going to be a thing."