“I know you tried coming to my rescue, Zach. But we all know that’s not why you’re on this tape. So I’ve got one question before we continue. When you try rescuing someone and discover they can’t be reached, why would you ever throw that back in their face?”
It was 5:46 and you just arrived at school. Your mom works early and you don’t drive, so you have to leave early too. Every morning you hear the dribble of a basketball in the gym. You usually just play your music and leave it be, but today, you were intrigued. Who was playing basketball at 6:00 in the morning?
You peeked through the door space. You couldn’t see much of the figure, other than sporatic flashes of the baby blue jersey. You crept into the gym, revealing the school basketball star Zach Dempsey. You closed the door behind you as quietly as possible. You stood by the bleachers, watching him dribble the ball. He jumped up and aimed the ball at the basket. He missed the basket entirely.
“Dammit!” He swore. He chased the ball to the gym wall. With the ball between him and the wall, he rested his head against it. He fist pounded against the mats.
He turned around and dribbled the ball across the court. He jumped up, threw the ball and it hit the backboard. Luckily, it bounced into the basket. You smiled to yourself and physically celebrated the shot. You were sure not to make a noise.
He continued playing, making all his shots. He jumped onto the basket, making a slam dunk. He let out a hearty laugh. You clapped you hands, which gained his attention.
You paused. “I hope you don’t mind,” you started. “I heard the dribbling. I just wanted to see who was up.”
He walked to the edge of the court with the ball against his side. Panting, he asked, “How long were you standing there?”
He wasn’t upset that you were there, not even bothered.
“Well,” you checked your phone for the time: 6:13. “Almost half an hour.”
He smiled. “Did you see me missing all my shots?”
You stepped out from beside the bleachers. “I saw one. Then you got back up and made the shots after.”
He walked over to the bleachers, sitting beside where you stood. He tapped the spot beside him, beckoning you to sit. You did so and he wiped his sweat from his forehead on the collar of his jersey.
“Y'know, before you got here,” he panted. “I couldn’t make any shots. Maybe one out of, lemme see, fifteen. Then the moment I was about to shower and give up, I felt completely at ease. Like, an extra rush of adrenaline.”
You nodded, not really looking at him. You always found him attractive. He was a sweet guy– dumb, but sweet.