She whips her head around, glares at me, and then calls for the ball. The two guard with the brown bob whips her a chest pass, and Shannon turns to face me.

“Oh, look. It’s me on me,” I say.

She pulls up to shoot, and I’m off my feet ready to block, ready to knock her shot into next week.

But she doesn’t shoot. And I’m still in the air. And now she’s around me scoring an easy two. Damn.

“I’ve had red hair all my life,” Shannon says, catching the ball after it falls through the net. “I only started dying it black when I started playing you.” She shoves the ball into my solar plexus on the sly.

All my breath rushes out at once. Everything in me wants to bend over, to wrap itself around the hurt. But I stay upright and pass the ball to the ref. “Why you so worried about me?” I manage to push out in a normal voice.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

I take off running up the court and she runs right beside me. Like, literally her shoulder touching my shoulder. “I know you have an obsession with me. That’s what I know.” Jordan holds up a four, and I run to the free-throw line. She passes me a quick overhead pass.

“Sure, I’m curious. How could I not be? You’re my sister,” Shannon says, and gives me a little shove in the back. I throw myself forward, like she’s just pushed me hard, but the refs don’t buy it.

I square up to face Shannon and laugh. Then I pivot while holding the ball with my elbows wide to create some space. “Sister? You officially need help.” I try to drive right, toward the basket, but she stays in front of me and cuts off my driving lane.

“Have you ever wondered where your dad goes every Sunday?” she says, hands way up.

Not that it’s any of her business, but Daddy drives out to Waller to visit his parents’ graves every Sunday. I look to shoot, but I can’t get a shot off with her crowding my space. I’ve already picked up the ball, so I can’t put it down again without double dribbling. I look to pass, but no one is open.

The ref blows the whistle and points three fingers toward Langham’s goal. Shit, three-seconds.

“Come on, Carli!” Jordan yells at me with her face scrunched up.

“My bad, my bad,” I reply, and look at the scoreboard. Eighty-seven to seventy-seven with five minutes left on the clock.

“It’s not your fault you don’t know,” Shannon says, running back toward her goal. “I only found out a couple years ago when I saw you play in the All-American game on TV. Saw Daddy cheering for you in the stands—”