The Shootaround

The fire sun overhead warmed the intermittent breeze, which brushed against Jimmy’s cheek in a sultry way that sparked mortal desire, and in turn, his need to be desired.

            There she was, at the free throw line, knees slightly bent, the basketball balanced perfectly in her right palm.

            Her shooting form was…eloquent.

            Better than his, if Jimmy was admitting the truth, now or back in the day, in college. Whispering the truth to yourself can be tough, but revelatory.

            The ball rolled off her fingers, creating the right amount of revolutions that propelled it over the cracked lane of the playground court and through the iron hoop and chain-link net.

            “Yee-haw!” Kay-Kay crowed, drawing the momentary attention of toddlers and their moms at the nearby playground equipment as her long braids trailed behind her head. “Now that, my man, is how you take a free throw.”

            “You know, the one thing I like about you is your modesty,” Jimmy deadpanned.

            She smiled. And not just the kind of, “I’m being friendly” smile.

            There seemed to be more to it. Something that made him consider the possibility that her feelings about him mirrored his own of hers.

             Maybe it was the way her cheeks were raised, causing deep dimples of her chocolate skin to form under them and on either side of her mouth.

            Or the way her deep coffee eyes flashed like the beam of a lighthouse, and somehow accentuated the swirl of her hips.

            It had been awhile for Jimmy.

            There had been women over the years, sure, alluring, enticing creatures with clear skin and riotous hair that had overridden his necessity to put basketball first.

            But never had one replaced basketball.

            None had ever come close to that.

            Except Kay-Kay, and not because she was a basketball coach herself, the head of the girls’ program at Chicago’s tony Barton School, and Jimmy’s boys’ program counterpart.

            She was his voice of reason, his confidante. Had been for years, around since the time they both started in their roles at the Barton School in the late 2010s.

            He stole looks at her. When she bent over to pick up a basketball, for example, though it was never crude; simple admiration. Or when the sun created shadows on her cheeks, like it was right now. Her long fingers, almost like a pianist’s. Her voice.

            “You awake over there?”

            Her voice.

            “Yeah, I’m awake,” Jimmy replied, now wondering if he was blushing. He adjusted his Ray-Bans and tugged at the collar of his Golden State Warriors t-shirt, the deep sweat stains producing a modicum of self-consciousness.

            She wore a gray Property of Barton School t-shirt with red lettering, red shorts that said Barons Coach Staff on the right leg, and white Nikes with a crimson swoosh. Her shapely nails were florid, painted a similar shade of red.

            And at that moment, Jimmy tried to hide the fact that he had never seen anyone more beautiful.

            He had to hide this, because of the implications.

            School—and specifically, the athletic director, Thomas Peck, of whom they both referred to pejoratively as Pecker—wouldn’t consent to a staff romance, even if they were both at the literal top of their games. In March 2021, in the first Illinois state basketball tournament since the onset of the pandemic, Jimmy led his team to the boys Class 4A state semifinals.

            Kay-Kay had one-upped him, taking her team all the way to the girls Class 4A finals, before losing a tough title game in overtime.

            So their combined on-court success was celebrated in the administrative offices and staff rooms of the Barton School, not because it stood on its own, but because it translated to increased enrollment. Which translated to tuition and fees. Which translated to new and better facilities, like a state-of-the-art weight room that had been installed after the 2021 season. 

            And the cycle went on.

            Always enrollment. Always the dollars.

            But a staff romance? Strictly forbidden, according to the Barton School employee handbook and Peck’s by-the-book reputation. 

            “Shoot from right where you’re standing, white boy,” Kay-Kay said, smiling. “Betcha can’t make it.”

            Jimmy stood at the cusp of the three-point line on the far-left corner.

            The ball bounded toward him on one bounce from Kay-Kay. He caught it and made a show of palming the ball in his right hand toward the basket. The ball created a sort of eclipse of the sun that was traveling downward in the late afternoon on the opposite side of the Logan Square court.

            “I’mma make you cry,” he said to her. She laughed instead.

            Without touching the ball with his left hand, he lifted the ball and let it sail toward the goal.

            Nothing but the bottom of the chain-link net.

            The ball bounced once, twice, before coming to a complete stop right under the backboard.

            He looked at her, she at him.

            They both bolted for the ball and arrived at the same time.

            “Mine!” she screeched as she grabbed the ball with both hands, which again brought the attention of the moms at the playground equipment.

            “Nope, nope, nope,” Jimmy said, getting his hands on the ball, brushing hers, and turning the dispute for the ball into a near tug-of-war.

            Now Jimmy was sure he was blushing.

            He also noted for the first time a tiny tattoo under Kay-Kay’s left ear, of a Christian cross and the numbers 2-24-18.

            “Who do you think you are?” she said, now standing and laughing, but still holding the ball tight to her chest.

            The moment, then, devolved. It slipped under the waves of normalcy, of the normal life that Jimmy had always figured was his lot, involving acquaintances and basketball, but nothing more. Certainly, he would be alone, but he’d have his game, and his reputation, and his forthcoming championships, which would lead to a college gig and ultimately the NBA.

            But maybe not. 

            He longed for this woman.

            He longed for this moment, that it might never end, that he could climb into it and cocoon himself.

            She made it worth living.

            “You all right?”

            Her. Beautiful, magnificent her.

            A Nubian queen.

            “I’m fine,” Jimmy said, not letting go of the ball but drawing it closer to himself, and in turn drawing her closer to him.

            Their eyes found each other, and he felt another warm summer breeze kiss her cheek.

            “Okay, it’s yours,” she said, turning away and chuckling as she ran back to the free throw line. “Let’s play horse.”

            The moment had passed, but there would be others.

            He sensed it, and found solace in it.