Free Sugar Daddy by Lisa Kleypas Page A

businesslike nod. “Bring the ball. I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”
    He was already there by the time I made it to the basketball hoop. We were both dressed in sweatpants, long-sleeved tees, and ragged sneakers. I dribbled the ball and passed it to him, and he executed a flawless free throw. Jogging to the basket, he retrieved the ball and passed it to me. “Don’t let it bounce so high,” he advised. “And try not to watch the ball while you’re dribbling. You’re supposed to keep an eye on the guys around you.”
    “If I don’t watch the ball while I dribble, I’ll lose it.”
    “Try it anyway.”
    I did, and the basketball bounced out of my control. “See?”
    Hardy was patient and relaxed as he taught me the basics, moving like a big cat across the pavement. My size allowed me to move around him easily, but he used his height and long reach to block most of my shots. Breathing fast from exertion, he grinned at my frustrated exclamation when he obstructed yet another jump shot.
    “Take a break for a minute,” he said, “and then I’ll teach you a pump fake.”
    “A what?”
    “It’ll throw your opponent off long enough to give you a clear shot.”
    “Great.” Although the air was chilled by the approach of nightfall, the exercise had made me warm and damp. I pushed up the sleeves of my tee and pressed a palm against a stitch in my side.
    “Heard you were going out with someone,” Hardy said casually, working the ball into a spin on the blunt tip of his forefinger.
    I shot a glance at him. “Who told you that?”
    “Bob Mincey. He says you’re going with his little brother Gill. Nice family, the Minceys. You could do a lot worse.”
    “I’m not ‘going out’ with Gill.” I made little quotation marks in the air with my fingers. “Not officially. We’re just sort of…” I paused, at a loss to explain my relationship with Gill.
    “You like him, though?” he asked with the kindly concern of a big older brother. His tone made me feel as irritable as a cat being dragged backward through a hedge.
    “I can’t imagine anyone not liking Gill,” I said shortly. “He’s real nice. I’ve got my breath back. Show me the pump fake.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Hardy motioned me to stand beside him, and he dribbled the ball in a semicrouch. “Say I’ve got a defender standing over me, ready to block my shot. I have to fake him out. Make him think I’m taking a shot, and when he takes the bait, it throws him off position, and then I’ve got my chance.” He raised the ball to his sternum, sold the move, and made a smooth jump shot. “All right, you try it.”
    We faced each other while I dribbled. As he had instructed, I kept my eyes on his instead of focusing on the ball. “He kisses me,” I said, still dribbling steadily.
    I had the satisfaction of seeing Hardy’s eyes widen. “What?”
    “Gill Mincey. When we study together. He’s kissed me a lot, in fact.” I moved from side to side, trying to get around him, and Hardy stayed with me.
    “That’s great,” he said, a new edge to his tone. “Are you going to take a shot?”
    “I think he’s pretty good at it too,” I continued, increasing the pace of my dribbling. “But there’s a problem.”
    Hardy’s alert gaze found mine. “What is it?”
    “I don’t feel anything.” I raised the ball, faked the move, and took the shot. To my amazement the ball went through the hoop with a silky swish. It bounced in diminishing strikes on the ground, unheeded by either of us. I went still, cold air searing my superheated throat. “It’s boring. During the kissing, I mean. Is that normal? I don’t think so. Gill doesn’t seem bored. I don’t know if something’s wrong with me or—”
    “Liberty.” Hardy approached and paced slowly around me as if a ring of fire separated us. His face gleamed with perspiration. It seemed difficult to wring the words from his own throat. “There’s nothing wrong with you. If there’s no