Free Tangled Sheets by Michael T. Ford

seems connected to his hands by invisible threads, passing from one to the other seamlessly as he weaves his way between his opponents. His feet attack the asphalt in short, staccato bursts as he looks for an opening and takes it, darting past a big black man, who swears loudly when Ray lifts the ball skyward and follows it up toward the waiting net.
    The ball slips from his fingertips, is on the verge of being swallowed by the steel mouth of the basket, when another hand shoots out of nowhere and crashes into it, sending it spinning away. The smile waiting to be born on Ray’s face dies just as suddenly, twisting into a frown that scars his handsome face. He looks around to see who has done this to him, ruined his perfect shot.
    It is a Latino boy. He appears to be about eighteen, uneasily straddling the line between adolescence and manhood. I have not seen him here before, but now that he has caught my interest, I am surprised that I did not notice him earlier. Short and dark, he is solidly built, the thick muscles of his bare chest pumped from hours of working out. He is wearing thin white gym shorts that set off his burnished skin and cradle his cock and balls in a heavy bulge. A St. Christopher medal hangs from his neck, a spark of brilliance in the afternoon light.
    He glances over at Ray briefly and grins, a reef of white teeth rising between his full lips. He is not mocking, only acknowledging their shared moment, but Ray becomes angry. I can tell by the way his hands rest on his waist, the way he lets his head hang slightly as he kicks at the asphalt with his foot. When a teammate slaps him on the back in a gesture of support, he moves away.
    The ball is back in play, passing from man to man like a sun falling through the sky. Ray is on the outside, determined to make up for his loss. He tries to put his mind back on the game, to focus only on getting the ball into his hands and taking it with him into the air. But the young man is with him at every step, watching for the smallest crack in Ray’s game. The rivalry between Ray and this boy arouses something in me, the way they are simultaneously attracted to and distanced from each other, each needing the threat of the other to test his own strengths.
    When Ray turns, the ball neatly pivoting with him, he comes face to face with his opponent, who grabs the ball easily, for the moment claiming it as his own. He is angry, and his anger is his downfall, his single-mindedness overtaking his every move. His normally confident steps falter as the need to win clouds his judgment and he misses several easy opportunities. When the Latino boy gets by him, neatly tucking the ball into the basket, Ray storms off the court.
    He comes over to me, his eyes downcast, and stands silently as the other men continue to play. I don’t look at him; don’t say anything. But when I catch the Latino boy’s eye, I wave to him. He trots over and stands in front of me.
    â€œThat’s some really good playing you’re doing out there, uh . . .”
    â€œLuis,” he says, and shakes his head as if to brush off my praise. “Thanks.” He motions to Ray. “This guy doesn’t make it very easy for me, though.”
    Ray mutters a response, wanting to get away from the boy as quickly as possible. He senses what is about to come and thinks that maybe he can pull me away before it happens. Luis doesn’t seem to notice his agitation, his eyes back on the men as they continue to play.
    â€œYou look like you’re working up quite a sweat,” I say, and Luis nods. “Hot as hell out there today. Gonna get myself somewhere cool when I’m finished here.”
    I let a suitable pause fall, waiting for the natural rhythm of the seduction to swing back. I think this is the one, and I enjoy the game. “Why don’t you come over to our place to cool off?” I ask. “We’re just around the corner here. We can have a