three

A laugh emits from my mouth involuntarily as I process what he has just said. With a shake of my head, I try to stop the laughing, but I can't. So I just keep laughing and laughing and laughing. And soon, he's laughing along with me, not because he thinks what he said was funny (no, he still considers that to be held to the utmost seriousness), but because I'm laughing, and laughter is contagious. My entire body is shaking as I laugh, and I'm really hoping that I don't fall off the bleachers, considering my overly sprawled position.

           "I'm serious," he persists with a laugh. "Feel them!"

           "I don't want to feel your abs, Kyle," I tell him in between laughs.

           But he doesn't like that answer, so he stubbornly grabs my shaking hand and places it underneath his cotton tee, on his stomach. I sober up a bit as I realize then I'm touching Kyle's abs, on the bleachers, in the gym, as Jason and his other friends scrimmage around and I wait for Ezra. My hand flies out from under his shirt, and I straighten up so that I'm no longer lolling about on the metal structure of ascending benches. But Kyle doesn't take my recoiling to be a sign of OMG-maybe-I-should-change-the-topic, but instead presses on the matter even more.

           "I told you they were real," he mutters triumphantly.

           I want to tell him that I never doubted his body's exquisite contour for even a second, but I don't, because Kyle seems like one of those guys who lives for compliments like that and gets cocky because of them. Jason's the same way. So instead, I just send him a small smile, which he returns, and then I laugh again, because I'm just in one of those moods of extreme exuberance right now. I don't know why—I just am.

           "I had a lot of fun the other night," Kyle reflects, grinning at me brightly.

           I think for a moment, before replying truthfully: "So did I."

           Over the weekend, Kyle and I went on our date. He picked me up at my house, got interrogated by his best friend Jason Berkley, and then we were on our way. Throughout the entire car ride, he wouldn't tell me where we were going. All I knew was that casual attire was needed. Even though we sort of know each other, it was still pretty awkward. Kyle is one of Jason's best friends—hanging with him is bound to be weird no matter what.

           He stopped his car in the parking lot of the local movie theater, and we went in. Since it was a Saturday night, the place was hopping with teens and other variants of people alike. We saw some people that we know and know of, but didn't stay and chat with them for that long. Kyle asked me what movie I wanted to see. I told him that it honestly didn't matter to me. He asked if I was more of a chick flicks type of girl or an action one. I told him a mix of the two genres. We settled on a movie about two spies who end up falling love after some obstacles. The movie itself was just okay, but that wasn't why I went to see it. I was there to be with Kyle, and that was a little more than okay.

           As per his reputation, the boy acted like the perfect gentleman the entire way through. From when he opened doors for me, to when all he did during the movie was offer me some his popcorn. He didn't make a move—he didn't even offer to hold my hand. All he did was be courteous and amiable towards me, and make one hell of a good impression. Going into the date, I had been a bit wary because the whole situation was a bit random. But coming out of it, well, I felt much better. Almost like I would do it all again. Which is why when he walked me up to the front door of my house and suggested that we go out another time, I accepted.

           Kyle is pretty attractive. That, along with his typical congeniality and knack for sports are about all he has going for him. After talking to him longer than I ever have over the past few years that we've been in contact with each other's lives, I can honestly say that his personality is about as versatile as a rock, and he has about as much depth as Mount Everest, but he's nice. And attractive.

           He'll probably get an athletic scholarship from some college and play a handful of things, then he'll find a nice girl, and then either take over his dad's business (something with cars) or find an average paying job that isn't too mentally straining. I like Kyle—I really do—I just know that we have absolutely no future together. But our first date was nice, and Kyle is a nice guy (with a nice face and even nicer abs, as I have just learned), so giving him another chance can't possibly be detrimental in anyway. Nothing serious is going to happen between us, and I'm fine with that.

           "Kyle! Sal! Stop sucking face, would'ya?" Jason snaps, walking over in our direction. Kyle scrambles up, so that he's standing on the gym floor, but I don't move a muscle.

           "Actually, Jay," I say, "we weren't sucking face at all. Just talking."

           "Whatever," he mutters, his eyes scanning over to me and then to his friend. "Dude, we're heading out. You coming or what?"

           "Uh, I think I'm gonna stay behind with Sal, bro," Kyle tells him evenly.

           My brother shrugs, as if to say, "Suit yourself," but he doesn't actually say that. No, instead, he says something a tad bit harsher, but it's Jason, so I don't think too much into it: "You know she's hanging out with that loser for the next hour, right?"

           "Yeah, I know," replies Kyle, offering up a small smile of indifference.

           "Whatever, man," Jason says. "Sal, try your hardest not to have a threesome with this idiot," he gestures to Kyle, "and the other one who you shouldn't even be talking to."

           "I'll try," I tell him earnestly, "but it's not my fault if Kyle and I have a twosome."

           Jason's face contorts in absolute disgust as he sputters, "If you two even think about doing that, then Kyle's going to be dead before it happens. Understood?"

           Kyle sends my brother a mock salute, and then he grins at me, but I don't initially respond to Jason. Instead, I stroke my chin pensively, and cock my head to the side. "Got it," I murmur slowly. "So, that means that you're totally chill with me and Ezra having a twosome, right?"

           Jason then lets out a stream of colorful words that my parents would probably ground him for even having in his vocabulary, and then shakes his head, not even dignifying my comment with a rebuttal. He just walks away, and I'm proud of him. Jason and I could get into a majorly heated argument about my (nonexistent) sex life or Ezra. But we don't. Because Jason walks away when it's time. Typically, that isn't one of his core philosophies when dealing with an adversary, but I'm glad that he's implementing it now.

           "Bye, JB!" I call after him, but again, he ignores me. I grin at Kyle dopily, and he's about to mirror my expression, but then something stops him. My eyes float over to where the doors of the gym are. Jason and his friends (excluding Kyle) have all left, but a single person enters, and something about this particular individual doesn't sit too well with Kyle. But since I don't have an issue with him, I wave my hand excitedly, and shout, "Yo! Ezzhead! What took you so long, dude?"

           Ezra doesn't say a word, but rather continues to stroll in our direction, with a misleading ball tucked in his possession. The sight of the orange orbs gives me false hope that maybe—just maybe—I'll actually get to use a real ball today, instead of doing running drills. But then I remember that Ezra wants to go through the all the basics, and let me tell you, Ezra takes all the "fun" out of "fundamentals" like a freaking pro. There is nothing even remotely enjoyable about running back and forth and stopping short at random times. It sucks.

           "Why is he here?" is the first thing that Ezra says, his head jerking over to Kyle.

           "Because," Kyle states.

           Though it's a crappy answer, Ezra doesn't pursue to challenge it, and just sighs, dropping the ball to the ground. I watch as it rolls, moving further and further away from me, and I realize that I'm probably not going to be using it today. Ezra drops to the floor, and begins to stretch. Reluctantly, I follow in suit. Kyle is sitting on the bleachers, and he's watching us. He has yet to reach for his phone, and that's probably what surprises me the most.

           "I gotta tell ya, Ezzhead, I'm not really feelin' the whole 'running' thing to day. Ya dig?" I say, reaching for my toes as my knees are locked. I can feel the burn in my leg muscles, even though my hands barely brush past my calves, displaying my utter lack of flexibility.

           "Ezra," he corrects sharply, "and actually, I was thinking that maybe we could do some form stuff today."

           "Like, as in no running?" I question, knowing that it's probably just some treacherous joke.

           "Some running," a few ounces of happiness deflate inside of me, "but more form."

           "Care to elaborate on what exactly 'form' entails?" I offer up instead of plainly asking.

           "Stance, triple threat, and some defense stuff," he lists, rotating his shoulders back in a rather awkward manner.

           "Do any of those include touching an actual basketball?" Ezra breathes a laugh, and I frown, knowing that it's a no.

           He then gets up off of the gym floor, and stands up straight for a moment before bending at his knees and stretching his arms out wide. His torso is held up straight, as is his head. He begins to almost—almost bounce on the balls of his feet, and then addresses me: "This is your basic stance. It's mainly meant for defending, but you can also use it on offense." He straightens up so that he's standing regularly and then tells me to copy his earlier position. After giving him an are-you-freaking-kidding-me-dude look, I reluctantly comply. "You're doing it wrong," he immediately says to me.

           I assess my stance. It's the same as his was. My arms are stretched out. Knees bent. Head up. There is absolutely no difference between his posture and mine. "I'm doing it just like you did!" I refute, even going to the lengths of bobbing on the tips of my feet.

           "Sal, stick your butt out more," instructs Ezra.

           "Uh, excuse me?" I say, the mentioned part of my anatomy not one that should ever be referenced when it comes to Ezra.

           "Your butt," he articulates slowly, "needs to stick out more. It's not an innuendo or sexual reference. You just seriously need to stick your butt out more and bring your shoulders back." With a huff, I attempt what's commanded of me, and move my booty out. My shoulders also instinctively move back, and then I glance over to Ezra for some form of approval. He doesn't give me the affirmation I'm seeking. Instead, he says, "Bend your elbows," so I do. Then, he nods, and leaves me like a scarecrow attached to a wooden stake—immobile and stiff.

           When Ezra returns, he has the ball in his hand, and begins to dribble it right in front of me. I watch the orb drop to the ground and then spring right back up into his grasp. He switches it up between his hands with such ease that it's as if he isn't dribbling a basketball at all, but rather letting go of one side of a rubber band with the knowledge that it'll just snap right back up. I'm yearning to reach out and touch the ball, but I don't.

           Then Ezra says: "Don't let me pass you." And before I can think about what he's doing, he's moving around me, and then goes up to the basket and makes a gorgeous shot. "I told you to not let me pass you," he scolds lightly.

           "Then what do you want me to do?" I ask.

           "In that position, I want you to shuffle on your feet and follow me. Don't let me pass you," he tells me.

           I gulp, and then we try it again. He's dribbling the ball, and my eyes are attentively following it. Then, he veers to the left, and I pick up my feet while trying to maintain the stance, but it's hard, and he easily brushes past me, swishing the ball. We try the same thing a few more times, and by around the seventh time, I have come to the point where I'm able to follow him while shuffling backwards as he drives the ball. I can't steal the ball, but he says that I'm doing better, even if he isn't going full force.

           "Hey, can I try that?" Kyle suddenly calls out, reminding both Ezra and me that he's still here. We both shoot him looks of confusion, the demonstrative pronoun in his sentence not a very clear one. So, he elaborates: "Driving and having Sal stop me."

           My mouth forms into an "O" shape, and Ezra continues to stare at the other boy quizzically. After a moment of no one saying anything, Ezra lobs the ball all the way over to Kyle (who is now standing by the bleachers). Kyle catches the ball without an ounce of doubt, and instantly throws it to the ground, and starts to dribble. He casually saunters over to us with the ball in his possession, and he sends me a shy smile. Then, he's standing in front of me where Ezra once was, and Ezra is off to the side, a few feet away, just watching.

           "So, am I, like, following him?" I ask Ezra, my eyes glued on the ball that Kyle's dribbling.

           "Yeah," Ezra says slowly, "but this time try to steal the ball."

           I snort, knowing that with Kyle, that would never happen. Nonetheless, I do as commanded, so when Kyle acts as if he's about to lunge forward, I stick my hand out and try to reach for the ball. And you know what? I end up procuring the ball somehow, and when it's in my control, I have no clue what to do. Dribbling is the obvious next move, but I know that Ezra will criticize my form and tell me I'm doing it wrong. So instead, I just stand there like an idiot, holding the basketball and not knowing what to do next. But Kyle knows what to do.

           He swiftly comes behind me, and sticks his arms around my waist, and then he begins to tickle me. And I laugh and I laugh and I laugh. In the process of Kyle's juvenile tickling and my uncontainable laughter, I manage to drop the ball, and it rolls all the way over to Ezra. He picks it up, but I can barely see, because tears are now streaming down my face as Kyle continues to tickle me and I continue to laugh. Oh, and it isn't pretty laughing, either. No, this is the full-on cackling-crying-coughing type of laughing that is probably best to be reserved for at least date number twelve. But right now, I don't care, because I just can't stop laughing.

           "K—Kyle," I heave, "s—stop!"

           But he doesn't. And neither do I. He keeps tickling. And I keep laughing. Only when the sharp noise of a ball colliding with the backboard and then plummeting through the net is heard do we temporarily pause. My eyes move over to the basket, but there's no one there. Then, they travel to the perimeter of the court. Standing at the half court line is Ezra. His eyes are closed as he takes a deep breath, and a small grin stretches across half his face. He made a shot. An amazing shot.

           I twist my way out of Kyle's grip, and then force myself to compliment Ezra: "Wow. That was really good."

           "I know," he replies in a distantly cocky manner. I'm about to comment on his arrogance, but I don't for two reasons. 1) He'll just say something about how he's not being cocky—he's being "honest." And 2) He doesn't give me the chance to say anything, because from his mouth, more words are emitted in rather a snappy way: "Are you two done, or do you want to continue the love-fest?"

           "We were just having fun, dude," Kyle immediately comes to our defense. "Chill."

           Ezra makes a point of rolling his eyes, and then speaks to Kyle directly with a, "We both have two very different agendas when it comes to spending time with Sal. Right now, I want to practice with her—not watch you two flirt after you let her steal the ball."

           After what Ezra says clicks in my mind, it's my turn to say something to Kyle: "You let me steal the ball?"

           Kyle's face tinges with guilt, and he reaches to scratch the back of his neck. He purses his lips, and then whispers a cute, "Maybe," and all I can focus on is how I think that the disyllable is beyond adorable and it's weird, because it's coming from Kyle. Typically, Kyle and "cute" shouldn't be used in the same sentence. The guy has these big bulking muscles and this face that can give Colton Haynes' a run for its money. Puppies and baby pandas are cute. Kyle isn't cute—he's hot. There's a difference.

           "Well, it's, uh, fine," I tell him with a small smile.

           "Actually, no, it isn't," Ezra corrects, being more of a hard-ass than he usually is. "When you're defending someone in a game, they're not going to let you steal the ball because they think you're hot, Sal."

           "Hey!" Kyle exclaims. "I didn't give Sal the ball because I think she's hot."

           "Really?" Ezra stretches out the vowels, his eyebrows raised in incredulity.

           Kyle then utters one of the most clichéd lines in the metaphorical book, but that doesn't stop me from completely melting into a pit of goo: "I gave it to her because I think she's beautiful."

           My cheeks are painted with a thick coating of red, and it's not from my physical fitness exploits. I don't dare to look over to Kyle, because I know that I'll just turn a deeper shade, and that just can't happen. Even though I know fully well that he's trying to be cheesy and adorable, I just can't get over the fact that someone like Kyle has called me beautiful. It's like if Heidi Klum went up to some random and completely average person and told them that they were pretty. But not really. Because Kyle isn't a female model and he hasn't called me "pretty"—he called me "beautiful." And I just can't stop beaming because of it.

           Ezra pulls my attention back towards him and basketball, ignoring Kyle entirely. But my attention is attached to Kyle, so as he moseys his way over to the bleachers once more, I can't help but stare. It isn't that fair to Ezra because he's the one using his personal time to help me, but I'm a teenage girl and a VERY attractive guy just expressed that he thinks I'm "beautiful." What am I supposed to? Blink and then pretend that my entire life revolves around basketball? Uhhhhh, no.

           Eventually, I somehow come back down to the world of sweat, basketballs, and Ezra, and then manage to listen to what I'm supposed to do. I'm basically just doing the same thing that I was before Kyle, uh, distracted me. But this time Ezra isn't going easy on me. He's making me run with him as fast as I can, and I know that it's on purpose. Every time he succeeds to shoot the ball, and just breezes past me like I'm a piece of paper. He's annoyed with me, and isn't hiding it.

           "Next week. Same time. Don't bring lover boy," Ezra grumbles under his breath when an hour is finally up. Then, he collects his basketball, and stomps out of the gym. All I can do is watch, and feel slightly remorseful about Kyle. But, like, not that remorseful, because, well, it's Kyle.