“When I said I wanted to go somewhere quiet, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“It’s the only place off limits during parties.”

He turns on the lights and grabs two basketballs from a rack. He extends one to me and I eye it curiously. He can’t be serious.

“Really?”

He looks unsure as he gives a little shrug, ball still held out toward me. His eyes light up and he drops the ball to my feet. “Wait, I know what we need.”

Confused but intrigued, I watch as he tucks the other basketball under his arm and takes out his phone. His head bounces from side to side as his thumbs tap on the screen.

“Here we go,” he says as music pumps into the room. He pockets his phone and dribbles toward the basket.

I take a moment to look around the room, taking in the gym. I’ve seen it before, but never really appreciated how nice it is. The polished wood floor is a half-court version of the one at Ray Fieldhouse from the blue and yellow lines on the court to the Ray Roadrunner mascot painted on the wall. It’s a sweet place. Joel’s dad is the president of Valley U and he bought this place and outfitted it with everything the guys could possibly need – and way more. It’s not as outrageous as some of the big university athletic dorms, but it’s pretty over the top.

Moving up to the free throw line, I try to think back on what I learned in junior high basketball while I watch Zeke take shots. He’s more relaxed than I’ve seen him all night. Even in dress clothes, he looks like he belongs with a basketball in his hands.

“It’s a little intimidating shooting hoops with you.”

“Don’t worry about it, I make everyone look bad on the court.”

I’m taken back by his words until I meet his gaze. He’s smiling and wears a cocky grin he’s never flashed my direction before. I feel that look in my toes. “You’ve got jokes, huh?”

He shoots, rebounds his ball and then dribbles to me. “Let’s see what you got.”

Under his scrutiny, I take my time getting into position at the free throw line and then shoot. I cringe as the ball doesn’t quite make it to the rim. Airball.

Zeke gets my ball and brings it back to me. “Try again.”

“Who knew the night could get more humiliating,” I mutter under my breath, but I take another shot anyway. This one at least hits the rim.

After my fourth miss, he hands me the ball and then instructs me to widen my stance. “Good, now bring your right foot forward just a tiny bit.”

Instead of trying to talk me through the upper body, he guides my arms up and into position and then moves my hands where he wants them. Goosebumps race to the surface at his warm touch. His hands are strong and steady, and it’s a sad realization that this is the most a man has touched me since my car accident nearly four years ago.