Claiming Callie: Part two

by Rion, Paige

  “Oh,” Callie says, then glances back down at the flower.

  It really is from him. Dean gave me a rose.

  Warmth spills into her limbs and her head grows fuzzy. That’s so…sweet.

  She lets the gesture sink in and thinks, Maya must be here.

  A couple minutes pass and Callie’s still staring at the rose—its delicate petals, the deep-red hue, the way they curl and fold around each other in an intimate embrace. She brings the rose back up to her nose and inhales the floral perfume. Next to her, Jinny screams, startling Callie from her flower-induced trance.

  “Oh, come on!” She throws her hands in the air, then says, “Thank you!”

  Callie looks back out at the court to see what the commotion is about and sees Dean setting up for a free throw behind the foul line.

  “Did you see that jerk? Talk about an arm to the body,” Jinny growls. Callie says nothing. If Jinny is one thing, she’s fiercely defensive about her brother when he’s competing. And her defensiveness can turn into irritation at the blink of an eye, so Callie typically prefers to stay mute during the game, cheering when appropriate, and agreeing to whatever Jinny says about it.

  Callie nods, then focuses on the game. The Panthers fans quiet as Dean sets up to take the shot. On the opposite side of the court, the Boston fans taunt and yell, pounding their feet on the bleachers, filling the gym with thunderous sound in an effort to distract him. But the concentration on Dean’s face is steady. His forehead creases as he glances up at the hoop. The referee passes him the ball and Callie watches in fascination as he wipes the bottom of his shoes with his hands, then dribbles. There’s no sign of tension in his mouth or the set of his brow. His face is placid, his expression tranquil as he lifts the ball and shoots.

  He scores and the fans erupt around her. When the ref hands him the ball for a second shot, he goes through the same steps, lifts on his feet, and scores a second basket.

  Callie jumps up to clap and cheer with the other fans. Dean’s running backward on the court, giving a teammate a high five. He moves with such grace that Callie wonders how anyone could watch anything on the court but him. She starts to sit down, but before she can, the Pitt Panther is dancing toward her again—this time with two more roses. He hands them to her and bows with a flourish, making a huge spectacle of Callie and the flowers.

  Sitting down, she holds the roses, her belly fluttering wildly. She has to force herself to contain the feeling. This isn’t real.

  She looks from them back to the court to where Dean’s blocking someone’s shot and feels someone tap her on the back. She turns to face two girls. They’re dressed in Pitt sweatshirts and look to be freshman. They’re both smiling, and the one with long dark hair asks, “Is that your boyfriend?”

  The words squeeze her stomach, but Callie nods. “Yeah,” she says a little breathless.

  “I thought I saw an article in the school paper about you guys, right?”

  Callie nods, unable to find her voice.

  “That is just. So. Sweet,” the girl gushes. “How long have you two been together again?”

  Callie swallows. She tries to think back to their story, the one they told Greg at the newspaper, but she finds it more than difficult. “Um. About a year now.”

  “Yeah? That’s awesome,” the girl’s friend says. “He’s so incredibly hot.” She adds, staring back out at the court.

  Callie follows the direction of her gaze to see Dean, fighting for the ball with a Boston player, before the referee blows the whistle. The players back off and set up in position on the court again, and Callie focuses on Dean. She pushes aside the fact that she’s known him her whole life—that he’s Dean Michaels—so that she can see him through these girls’ eyes.

  His sweat-soaked espresso hair is a perfectly disheveled mess, as he runs a hand through it before setting up to defend the ball. He holds his arms out, his eyes gleaming fiercely—an electric blue—under the harsh gym lights. His outstretched arms are nothing but muscle, coiled and waiting for action. His biceps flex and twitch with each subtle movement of his body, and his silky jersey sticks to his damp chest, revealing the outline of his tight pecs and abs.

  Callie’s mouth drops slightly. He’s totally ripped. How have I never noticed this before?

  She stares, unable to help herself. Her stomach dips and she marvels at the man moving across the court, wondering why she’s never seen just how completely gorgeous he is. How thick his hair is. Or the mesmerizing shade of his eyes. How built. How…

  She presses a hand to her belly. Oh, God. Get a hold of yourself, here. It’s Dean.

  Yes, it’s just Dean, but…

  No buts!

  In all her reflection of Dean’s hotness, it takes her a while to notice he has the ball. He dribbles down center court and points to one of his teammates for him to go deep, but he gets blocked. Dean pivots and goes left, swinging wide. But all of his teammates are guarded far too tightly for him to pass off the ball. No one’s open, and the player guarding him isn’t letting up, either. In a rush of movement, he pivots and pushes right, only to swirl around left and shoot the ball. It swishes in the net with ease. Never stopping, already moving, he returns two high fives from teammates, ignores Jason who shoots him a dirty look, then runs downcourt to where Boston takes the ball.

  This time, Callie’s ready for it. She waits to see if this will set the pattern for the game, and sure enough, she spots the Panther, another rose clutched in one furry paw. He’s riling the crowd of Panther fans up. He’s pumping his furry, golden-brown arms in the air, swinging the rose like a conductor, before he stops in front of Callie.

  She can feel the excitement spilling over, the bubble of laughter rising within her. And before she can stop herself, she gives the outstretched paw a high five before accepting her fourth rose. The panther does a cartwheel, then runs off, leaving Callie with this stupid grin on her face she can’t erase, no matter how hard she tries.

  She can feel Jinny’s gaze on her, boring into her with supersonic heat. She barely glances at her to see a smug expression, then focuses back on the flowers in her lap. This is the most excitement Callie’s had in a long while. Whether that makes her pathetic or not she isn’t sure, but the fireflies dancing in her stomach are real.

  Behind her, the girl sighs and says to her friend, “Why can’t we find a guy like that?”

  “Why can’t I?” she whispers.

  Did I say that out loud? Jinny clears her throat, and Callie stills. Of course, she meant theoretically. But even still, she can’t bring herself to say anything. Not while her cheeks are aflame and the light within is burning so bright. Not when the darkness from earlier in the day has lifted so completely. All Callie knows in this moment is that she doesn’t want to ruin this feeling. Even if it is only for some other girl’s benefit. Even if it’s all a show.

  Her decision made, Callie leans back in the bleachers and lets herself enjoy the glow.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DEAN

  Normally Dean can drown out the crowd, the cheers, and the screams around him until they are nothing more than white noise. As a player he has to—otherwise, he’s risking distraction. On the court, he only allows room for total focus. There is only one thing on his mind: the basketball, the net, and keeping it away from the opposing team. Nothing more.

  But tonight is different. Tonight, he can’t help but listen for the cheers, the roar of the crowd with each shot at the hoop. The wail of disappointment the couple times he missed, and the screams of joy when he makes yet another shot.

  Instead of distracting him, though, he lets it fuel him. Because one look at Callie sitting in the crowd, across the court, her arms full of flowers, only partially obscuring the huge smile on her face, and the adrenaline shoots through his limbs, setting him on fire. He’s completely aware that he’s fighting a battle both on and off the court. And based on the scoreboard as well as Callie’s expression, he’s winning both.

  Sweat drips
from his hair into his eyes as he faces off against the Boston ballplayer. His fingers twitch in anticipation. He watches his eyes, not his body, as the ballplayer dribbles slowly in front of the three-point line, preparing to make his move. He throws a sharp pass to his right. Dean follows, hustling to place his body in front of him. The ball comes back at them and the Boston player catches it with ease. Whipping around, Dean waves his arms in front of him in an attempt to block any throws and make moving freely more difficult. He sees the hesitation in his opponent’s eyes as he stops dribbling and grips the ball, realizing too late that there’s no way to pass. Now his opponent’s stuck. Pass or walk.

  Dean takes advantage and darts at him, managing to steal the ball, and runs down the opposite end of the court without hesitation. But his opponent’s on his heels, and Dean knows he has little time before he catches up and blocks him. He plants his feet in front of the three-point line and raises his arms to shoot. But the Boston player shoves him just as the ball leaves his fingertips, causing it to fall short of the net.

  A whistle blows and the ref makes an L shape with his arms, then gestures the pushing signal and grabs the ball.

  Dean shakes his fist in victory. He’ll get three shots at the foul line, since the shove cost him a three-pointer. Three baskets. Three roses.

  I have to make these.

  Dean sets up a couple feet off the free throw line. He draws in a deep breath and lets it out again. He wipes his palms on the bottom of his shoes, then accepts the ball when the referee throws it to him. He rolls his head on his neck, trying to loosen the tight muscles.

  He grips the ball, spins it once in his hand, and readies his shot. Ignoring the jests and screams from the Boston bleachers to his left, he rises on his toes and shoots. The ball is off slightly. Bouncing on the rim twice, it finally rolls into the net.

  He lets out a huff of air. Too close. Come on, relax, Dean.

  He pictures her sparkling blue eyes. Imagine what they must look like right now. I wish I could see her face. Read her expression.

  He receives the ball again and goes through the same process. This time he shoots and the ball easily swishes through the net. In the distance, he hears a woman scream. “That’s two roses. Come on, get her one more!”

  “Yeah. Three roses!” he hears another yell.

  Across from him, where the players line up in anticipation of the final shot, a Boston player mocks them. “Yeah. It’d be a shame if you missed this and lost a rose.”

  Dean glances at Emmett. He’s standing two men deep, his expression easy. Unlike the other players, who are on the defense, ready to grab the ball and make a play if he misses, Emmett stands with his hands on his hips. Smiling at Dean, he shakes his head and nods toward the stands.

  Grinning back, Dean meets his gaze and spots Callie. She’s now standing on top of the bleachers next to the Panther mascot. They’re holding hands and wiggling their hips, dancing, while the Panther grips two roses in his right paw and the crowd chants excitedly. His heart clenches at the sight. He should probably laugh or grin at the cute display, but he’s frozen. His heart comes to a complete stop as he watches her dance, her hair swishing over her face, her hips moving. She’s so completely beautiful.

  “Yo!” someone yells. Startled, Dean whips his head back to the referee, who passes him the ball without warning. He takes it and exhales. One more.

  He raises the ball in front of his body, and beside him the Panther crowd chants louder and begins to clap. “Three. Three. Three. Three.” Tension fists at the base of his spine, tightening all the muscles in his back. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face as he stares at the hoop. With a flick of the wrist, he lets the ball fly. It sails into the air, hits the backboard, and bounces into the net.

  Yes! Dean pumps a fist into the air, and the crowd goes wild.

  The clock counts down. Only a minute and a half left. Boston goes on to score another basket, but when the buzzer sounds Dean’s teammates—all except Jason, whose scowl is larger than the opposing teams’—run from across the court and the bench to surround him. They pat him on the back and raise him in the air, carrying him across the huge gymnasium to the bleachers, riled by the crowds’ cries.

  Dean finds Emmett below him and asks, “How many?”

  His friend is quick and knows without clarification what he wants. “Twenty-nine.”

  Dean nods, letting the corners of his lips curl. He hadn’t been able to count his baskets. But now he has one more thing to do.

  His teammates lower him. He moves toward the bleachers, and the Panther mascot meets him halfway. As discussed prior to the game, he hands him one more rose.

  A flurry of cheers rises up around him before the crowd hushes completely when they see Dean look from the rose to Callie. The anticipation surrounding him is thick, blanketing him like a wool coat. His stomach clenches as his gaze locks on hers.

  She’s sitting next to Jinny, her blue eyes bright, sparkling like sapphires. Her blonde hair falls in waves over her shoulders and glows golden under the bright lights, giving her an ethereal effect. But what takes his breath away, what gets him the most, is the soft blush blooming over her fair skin.

  He takes another step toward her and his heart slams in his chest. He’s being bold for the first time in his life and it feels wonderful and horrifying at the same time—like standing on a high dive just before a jump.

  He pauses and curls his finger at her, beckoning her to stand and close the gap between them. In the second he waits for her to act, it feels like forever. It’s as though she’s trying to decide what to do, and icy fingers squeeze his chest as she chooses.

  After an excruciating moment she finally stands, cradling the twenty-nine roses in her arms like a baby. Moving down the bleachers she makes her way to him, but stops just short. Only a foot separates them now, but even from here, he can smell the spicy scent of her perfume, the lavender of her favorite lotion, mingling with the sweet fragrance from the roses. He inhales, and his head swirls.

  He steps forward, finally closing the gap. The crowd roars once again, even louder than they had during the game. Excited screams call out amongst the cheering as Dean hands her the last flower, making the total thirty. She accepts it and glances up at him from hooded eyes.

  Inside, he’s shaking, but he forces his hands steady and raises his left, needing to touch her, to feel her. He tucks her hair behind one ear and wonders if she can sense how nervous he is. How much he wants her.

  Now or never.

  Sliding his fingers over her cheekbone, he cups the side of her face with his palm and leans forward. His gaze falls to her mouth. Her incredible lips—which are parted just enough. He feels as if he might die if he can’t taste them.

  He ducks his head and brings his lips closer to hers, where he can feel the whisper of her breath against his skin. Shutting his eyes he erases the gap.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CALLIE

  Just as his lips graze hers—just barely touching—Callie turns and offers her cheek instead. As his mouth lightly brushes over her cheek, she whispers into his ear, “Maya’s here.” She tries to force as much enthusiasm in her words as possible. It takes all her energy just to do this one thing. Just to pretend.

  Her heart is pounding rapid fire in her chest, machine-gun fast. She feels lightheaded and wonders if he can hear her heartbeat. She hopes not and focuses on quieting her pulse.

  His strong grip, the one that handles a ball with such skill, squeezes her waist, and the heat from his body shoots through her core like a shot of whiskey—strong and potent.

  She swallows hard.

  This should not feel like… How does it feel, exactly?

  She tries to clear her head, but the fluttering in her stomach rises through her chest to her throat and she can’t think.

  Thrilling? Comforting? Hot? Like his arms are where I belong?

  Gah! She takes a deep breath, hoping the oxygen will somehow muddle such outlandish though
ts. Snap out of it.

  Her brain is on overdrive. It’s been too long since she’s had a guy pursue her. This is obviously some repressed desire to have someone in her life.

  She feels lightheaded, but manages to take a step back and forces a smile as she glances up at him. Spotting Maya among the faces in the crowd just before Dean approached with his rose only served as a reminder. He’s in this for Maya. She knows this. But yet…

  Why is he looking at me like that?

  He gazes down at her. He’s breathing short, quick breaths—or is that her?—and the blue of his eyes turns cloudy with emotion, a stormy blue-gray. His grin is gone, along with his playful expression, and the tension in his jaw is punctuated with the flexing of muscle behind it.

  Crap, he’s probably upset with me. A kiss would’ve really solidified Operation Get the Girl. I blew it.

  She swallows, reminding herself that a lot of eyes are on them right now and that she needs to act normal—in love, in like, whatever…

  “Sorry.” She’s leaning into him, pressing into his body and whispering in his ear so it looks as though they’re sharing something intimate. But speaking isn’t so easy when your body feels as if it’s caught fire. What is happening to me? “I got nerv—”

  “It’s okay,” Dean shakes his head and saves her the embarrassment from fully admitting she choked. Regardless, she hates the disappointment she sees and knowing that she let him down.

  She clears her throat and forces her expression to brighten further. Putting her arms around him, she lamely gives him a hug. Letting her head fall onto the top of his chest just under the curve of his neck, she tries to relax the tension that seems to have taken over her entire body. His skin smells of sweat, cologne, and fresh air—a surprisingly enticing combination.