On the screen, I threw a garbage pass straight into his defenders’ hands. Qwan lazy-jogged it to the basket for an easy lay-up.

I said, “It’s different this time. The church and the Pledge are important to her. I’m putting myself in a position, so she can’t slip away.”

“Yeah, but—” He didn’t finish his sentence, focused on a baseline drive to the basket that I blocked with my center.

“You obviously have something to say.”

“Kiera is fire, like easily one of the five hottest girls at Green Creek. That part make sense. Only dudes that aren’t attracted to her, they kinda know . . .”

I paused the game. “Dude, say it.”

“They’re not going to get any. In my experience, in this town, that whole church-girls-are-freaky stereotype is big wrong. I’ve hollered at a couple, and it was all watching Hallmark movies with their parents in the room. Wednesday-night Bible study. It makes me have to ask you flat out—do you not like sex?”

I unpaused the game. “Of course I like sex.” I think. It looked fun when Lindy Blue did it.

“That’s what I thought. That’s why you might need to consider some different goals, D.” He drove the Greek Freak into the paint for a monster, uncontested windmill dunk.

My phone buzzed in my lap. And I paused the game again, freezing my player on the baseline, looking for open guys to pass to. The text wiped all digital basketball concerns from my mind.

Jameer: Code RED! Get to my house ASAP. Park on Kensey street, and come through my backyard.

My stomach fell through the floor.

Qwan said, “Dude, we doing this or what?”

His voice barely registered.

Me: What’s wrong?

But I knew. Deep down, I did.

Jameer: Someone is at Kiera’s

“I gotta go.” I pushed up out of Qwan’s chair. “It’s . . . my dad. Errands.”

If Qwan suspected the lie, I couldn’t tell. “That’s a forfeit, right?”

“Yeah. You win.”

“It’s the natural order of things.”

Him winning, or me losing?

I made it to my car, and gripped the steering wheel extra tight to keep my hands from shaking. If I was right, the next thing I’d be gripping extra tight might be Jameer’s neck.

The neighbor whose lawn I had to cut through to get to Jameer’s was on his knees, in his flower bed, pruning something. I was so mad that I stomped across his grass, gave a semi-polite wave, and kept on through his backyard like me trespassing on his property was our old routine. Nearby, loud and annoying, a lawn mower motor snarled.

Jameer waited for me where the property lines met, leaning on the short chain-link fence that enclosed his family’s yard. I planted two hands on the top rail—extra tight—and hopped over. When me and him were eye to eye, I said, “Who is it?”

For the first time, he looked rattled. Couldn’t tell if it was from the rage radiating off me, or something else. I hoped it was me. His little fake mastermind ass should be terrified.