I double check the fitted Gap jeans and cropped T-shirt that Mama says must be from Baby Gap it’s so short.
“I mean, yeah.” I angle a defiant look up at him. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s slutty, and I don’t want my boys checking you out. We too close to the championship for me to be kicking a teammate’s ass.”
“It’s not slutty. Boys get on my nerves expecting us to dress like nuns because they get hard every time we wear clothes that show our shape. If your boys are disciplined enough to be in that weight room at the crack of dawn and practice every day, they should be able to see a little bit of ass fully covered by jeans without getting it up. And if they can’t? Not my problem.”
“I’m just saying I don’t want them getting no ideas.” His scowl deepens. “And I don’t want you getting any either.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that. Your teammates are the boyest boys I ever met. I know them all except that new guy.”
“Don’t get any ideas about the new guy. Not that he’s that new. He’s been on the team all season.”
“He ain’t been to the house.”
“He’s kind of a loner.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like you,” I offer sweetly.
He turns to the mirror and checks out my handiwork with the tie. “Everybody likes me.”
Arrogant, but accurate. The boy’s charisma rivals his jump shot. Which makes him charming to everyone, but sometimes unbearable to his younger sister.
“What kind of name is Naz?” I ask. “Like Nas the rapper?”
“Pronounced the same, but short for Nazareth. Who names their kid that?”
“His mama, I guess,” I laugh, leaning against the dresser and watching as Cliff removes his wave cap and brushes his hair. “I think it’s kind of sexy.”
“Tee, what’d I say?” Cliff shoots me a glare. “Stay away from my teammates—especially that one. He’s gunning for my spot.”
“Your spot? He’s a two-guard?”
“He plays the two or the three. He’s my backup, but Coach Lipton ain’t taking my ass out ‘less he has to. Got good old Naz riding that bench,” he says with obvious satisfaction. “Scrub ass.”
“Sounds like you got beef with him.”
“Nah. Long as he stays in his place.”
“Which is where?”
“Outta my way and on that bench.”
“Well, you’re the star,” I say dryly. “Everyone stays out of your way, right?”
He narrows his eyes, brows lowering. “You being sarcastic?”
“No. Derisive. See the big words my basic public school education taught me?”
He huffs out a laugh and hooks an elbow around my neck, pulling me in close. “You’ll be at the championship game, right? It’s beat up you didn’t make at least one game this season.”
“Excuse me for having a life,” I say, my brows peaking at his nerve and self-centeredness.
“What you doing that’s so important you missed my games?”
I pull back to peer up at his handsome face. “Do you really not know I’m working at Ms. Hattie’s shop every day after school?”
“Doing what?”