*Chance*
I had my speech prepared, ready to go, but when that door opened and I saw her, everything disappeared. I hadn't expected to see Bridget donning a baggy T-shirt that I assumed to be one of her father's old shirts and a pair of navy blue spandex shorts peeking from beneath. Her hair was up in a messy bun that had been thrown up in either a hurry or lethargy.
She looked at me with wide and gorgeous green eyes, not a hint of makeup on her face, aside from the slightest smudge of mascara beneath her eyes. "What. . .? What the hell are you doing here?"
With a nervous chuckle, I rubbed the back of my head and tried not to stare—which was harder than you'd think. I mean, I had never seen her so natural or messy—and she was kinda hot like that.
Anger flashed across her face, bringing a slight pink to her cheeks. She demanded, "How'd you get here? How do you know where I live?"
I took several steps backwards and put my hands up in surrender. "I drove you home yesterday and I have a good memory."
It was plausible. And I probably could've made it on my own from memory. But I wasn't going to tell her about the yellow sticky note on my car's dashboard—it was best not to admit to stalker tendencies aloud.
Bridget studied me, her eyes apprehensive and her mouth drawn in a thin line. Hesitant, she inquired, "Alright, so what the hell do you want?"
I grabbed her jacket which I'd thrown across the guardrail on her porch. I showed it to her and stated, "You forgot it in my car."
She took it from my hands and threw it aside haphazardly. "Oh, sorry about that. And, uh, thanks for bringing it back." She looked awkward.
A broad smile spread across my face as I looked at her. Even without makeup, she was gorgeous. Although, she never wore much as it was. Still, it was refreshing to see her in her natural beauty.
"So you slept in late," I mused, starting light conversation since I wasn't ready to leave yet.
Bridget shifted her weight onto her other leg and brushed her bangs aside. "Yeah, my friends spent the night. And it's not even ten yet," she informed me, arching a brow as though to challenge the concept that sleeping in 'till ten was considered "sleeping in."
Suddenly, a figure appeared behind her. He had broad shoulders, a beer belly, and messy brown hair. The glare he was giving me mirrored the ones I got from Bridget. He was definitely her father.
"So what does the male model want?" he asked gruffly, the threat in his voice explicit.
Bridget looked behind her and answered, "He was returning my jacket from yesterday."
He raised his eyebrow. By the look on his face, it was clear he'd jumped to the conclusion that we'd fooled around in a car somewhere.
She had gathered that he'd come to such a conclusion, because she added, "He took me home yesterday. Nothing happened, dad."
As he glared at me piercingly, I knew why Bridget had said that her father was the overprotective type. Had he a knife in his hands, I was pretty sure he'd stab me and tell me to leave his daughter the hell alone.
I nodded, looking right into the man's eyes, reaffirming her statement that nothing had happened during the drive to her place. Despite how much I had wanted something to.
"Well, at least he brought it back." While he did look at me, in that "damn you to hell", unadulterated hatred way, he never addressed me directly. He'd just make comments about me to his daughter. He did not like me, but I was pretty sure it wasn't a personal thing—Bridget's dad probably hated all men who came to his daughter's door, or maybe just all men in general who could possibly take his daughter away.
I stuffed my hands into my pockets. I was beginning to feel a bit awkward under the glare of Mr. Young. I was used to being stared at, but I wasn't used to gaining the approval of a man like him. Normally, with one look, I got it. I was a bit out of my element here.
"Yeah," Bridget agreed quietly. She turned to me. "Thanks again for returning my jacket."
Her father glared at me for a while before turning and saying to his daughter, "Five minutes, Bridget."
My heart beat quickly as we stood side by side, looking out at the road with our elbows resting on the guardrail. I tried not to make it obvious I was staring at her as the wind blew her hair.
"I told you my father was overprotective," she said matter-of-factly in a whisper. She probably suspected her father was listening.
I shrugged. "He's not that bad a guy. Although, I can tell you two are related," I teased.
She glared at me the same way her father had, bringing a chuckle to my lips. She groaned and faced the sun once more. "Yeah, well, he's taught me well."
"Meaning?" I prompted with an arched brow.
"Meaning, I can handle myself with people like you." By the tone of her voice, I knew she was being serious. The thought of a knife came to mind again.
I smiled nonetheless. Maybe it was a bit of the suppressed romantic in me, but I enjoyed spending my Sunday morning on her porch, with her "I don't care" appearance and outfit.
She noticed my smile but let it go. She looked at her hands as she grumbled, "When I go back in, I'm gonna get lectured on the dangers of boys for three hours."
"He's one of those dads who wants his daughter to be a virgin until she's 42, isn't he?" I asked with a playful smile on my lips.
Bridget scoffed. "If he had it his way, I'd be a virgin for life."
Before I could stop myself, I blurted, "When do you want to lose your virginity?"
Yes, I am an idiot. A giant freaking idiot.
As she raised her eyebrow and looked at me as if I were insane, I wanted to hit my head against a pole and turn invisible. I wished time travel were possible so I could take back what I'd said. I knew she'd assumed I was the one who wanted to take her virginity away. Not that I didn't, but you don't just outright say it.
I swallowed hard and ran my fingers through my hair. I was going to say something, but my mouth was too dry and my tongue had forgotten how to work.
"Well, that's a bit personal," she replied defensively, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Yeah, I didn't mean to ask," I murmured. I had probably just ruined whatever trust I'd built up.
"But you had been thinking it," she accused.
A smirk slunk onto my face and I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. "I am a teenage boy," I pointed out. "But when do you?"
Bridget scoffed and pushed my head away, since I had neared her during my jeer. "Go away, you creep. And as to your question: when I'm too drunk to feel anything."
I released a hearty laugh as I headed back to my car. I knew she just answered so I'd leave, but at least she'd made a joke out of it.
As I opened my car door, Bridget yelled to me, "How'd you really get here?"
I just shot her an innocent smile and climbed in. I watched her go inside before revving my engine and driving away.
...
I wasn't used to wearing basketball shorts and a wife-beater. I could pull it off—I looked good in anything. But I didn't habitually wear basketball shorts.
Cranston tossed a sweat band to me, which I proceeded to put around my wrist, and he bounced on the balls of his feet while shaking out his arms.
Rory tested the basketball to make sure it wasn't flat and dribbled it for a while. Once he felt he had it down, he practiced shooting and dunking. Most of his attempts failed, but he was getting the hang of it.
The grumpy shortstop, Liam, sat in the corner, tying his shoes and grumbling angrily to himself. He was muttering about how basketball was such a waste of time and that he had better things to do on a Tuesday night. The only things he could come up with were homework and watching TV. As if those weren't a waste of time either.
At the beginning of school Monday, Cranston had gathered us around and proposed we play basketball. He claimed we needed more "male-bonding times" since all of us were apparently preoccupied with, what he called, hooter hounding.
So there we were, with sweat bands and basketball shorts, ready for a friendly game of what Cranston did best.
Cranston practically glowed as he held the basketball, spinning it on his finger. His shoes squeaked on the outside court during his scrimmage against an invisible opponent. As he moved swiftly from side to side, you could tell this was his sport.
Liam grumbled to himself as he joined Rory and me. All three of us waited until Cranston was ready—he chose the teams, no matter the sport.
"Alright, I'll take Mr. Grumpy Pants, who's apparently PMSing right now. And Chance and Rory, you be a team. Sound good?" When we all nodded, he moved to the 3-point line and threw the ball at me. Hard.
I groaned to myself as quietly as I could, so Cranston couldn't hear. I tossed the ball back to him and the game began.
Cranston was naturally point guard, but since we had so few players, we never kept any real positions. I just guarded Cranston while Rory guarded Liam.
For a few minutes, nothing happened. Cranston would try to move forward, but I'd stop him, forcing him back again. Liam wasn't exactly trying, so Cranston Bridges could never pass to him. Finally, the basketball player just had to shoot.
Everything was in a blur as Rory grabbed the rebound, passed it to me, and I ran down the court. I heard Cranston's footfalls catching up, so without thinking, I bent my knees and threw the ball.
Rory hooted and slapped my back, congratulating me on my "sick shot". He hit me a couple extra times because he was proud to be beating the actual basketball player.
Because he was losing, Cranston kicked it up a notch and scored twice for his team. As soon as they were winning, Liam woke up a little and started participating. But from the way he dribbled, you could tell he was not a basketball player.
After a while, we were tied and the last free throw determined the winner of the game. Luckily, it was Rory's and my ball.
"You're tossin' it in," Rory decided, throwing the ball to me.
I became worried. I knew how competitive and important winning was to these guys, so I didn't like having the outcome of the game on my hands. It was a lot of pressure for someone who had just recently started to participate in sports, like basketball and baseball.
"Why are you giving me the ball?" I asked, holding the basketball tightly in my hands.
Rory smirked as he stood along the side of the key. "You're the best shooter," he replied with ease.
In slow movements, I brought my eyes up to the hoop and concentrated on the square on the backboard. I emptied my mind again, not caring about winning or losing. I found myself bending my knees, arching my arms, and pushing forward on the ball.
It hit the backboard and then slammed against the rim, which caused it to spin upwards. It hit the back of the rim and began to teeter back and forth. Finally we heard the soft whoosh of the ball hitting the net—it went in.
Rory and I high-fived and hit each other on the arms as we celebrated the game. We were good sportsmen about it though, and shook our opponents' hands, telling the two, "Good game."
As I wiped my forehead on my sweat band, Cranston approached me and slapped my back. "You're good at everything, aren't you?"
With a chuckle, I shrugged and let a smirk form on my face, not bothering to deny it.
"No wonder the girls are all over you," he commented with a crooked smile. "But you haven't really noticed, have you? You've blown off every girl who's approached you."
It'd be a lie to say I hadn't noticed—girls often threw themselves at me in such conspicuous matters, and they petted my ego so much, that I couldn't help but be aware of their attempts to win me over. A more accurate statement was, I didn't care.
He chuckled. "You're only after one girl."
A smile spread onto my face as I thought of her: Bridget Young.