I jab Chris hard with an elbow to the side and take the shot.

“What was that?” He bends over and rubs the spot where I semi-impaled him.

“You were crowding the basket. What was I supposed to do?”

It’s the first Saturday morning in March, and it’s a gorgeous day—sunny and crisp. I’ve challenged Chris to a game of one-on-one because I wanted to do something with just the two of us, like old times. Like up until twelve days ago, not that I’m counting. Except this is nothing like old times, because all I can think about is the fact that Chris has a girlfriend.

“Let’s take a break.” He pulls a small towel out of his waistband and strolls toward a bench at the side of the court. He sounds tired.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to come in so hard. You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I have some Gatorade in the car if you’re thirsty.”

He grins. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Dude. Gatorade is scientifically formulated to provide maximum electrolytes. How could you expect coconut water to beat it?”

“I didn’t say I expected coconut water to beat it; I said I wanted it to. It’s called rooting for the underdog—a concept someone with your competitive streak might not understand.”

“Pssh.” I shake my head. “Remind me to bet against you on the March Madness brackets.”

Chris is still rubbing his side, but I know I didn’t hurt him that bad. Something else is bothering him. I wait for him to tell me, but he says nothing. Finally, to break the silence, I ask the question that’s been burning a hole in my mind for the past sixteen hours. I know I shouldn’t bring it up, but I can’t help it. I try to sound casual. “So, what did you and Lindsay end up doing last night?”

Chris buries his face in the towel and makes a show of wiping his forehead. “Fight, mostly.”

“Oh?” Trouble in paradise? My heart kicks up a happy dance inside my chest. Stupid heart. “What about?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. She’s a tad annoyed with me right now. We’ll work it out.” He leans back on the bench and stares at the sky. “I asked her to prom.” Something about the way he says it seems almost like a confession, as though he doesn’t want to tell me. My heart stops dancing and starts pounding. Can he sense my jealousy? Is that why things have become so awkward between us?

I hold up my hand and give him a high five. “That’s awesome.” I hope the enthusiasm in my voice doesn’t sound too forced. “Gosh, that’s kind of a long ways away.” Seven weeks. And seven hours, not that I’m counting. He must really be into her if he’s looking that far ahead. Or maybe he felt like he had to ask her to make up for the fighting?

Chris’s eyes meet mine. “I need to ask you something. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

I nod and brace myself. Does he want my advice on dealing with a pissed off girlfriend? Or—ugh—maybe my opinion on whether he should make a move now that they’ve been dating for almost two weeks? Or—double ugh—is he going to ask about my own spectacularly lame love life?

He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Remember that time in the seventh grade when a bunch of us decided to play dodgeball behind the school?”

Um. Okay. That would’ve been my next guess. I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

“You were captain, and out of all the kids at Sterling Middle, you picked me first to be on your team.”

“Okay.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why me? I was a total doofus back then. There were at least ten other guys, and a bunch of girls, who would have been better picks.”

What the … ? “Probably because you were my best friend, and I wanted you on my team?”

“Yeah, well. It didn’t work out too great for you. Jacob Blackwell knocked me out in the first round. Pounded me right here.” He points to his left shoulder.

“Wow. Good memory.” Who knew dodgeball scars ran so deep? “So you’re bringing this up now because … ?”

Chris looks away and begins tapping his left foot. “It just seemed like a strange move; that’s all. I mean, you’re so intent on winning all the time, and—”

“Chris! It was dodgeball, not the Olympics.”

“I think you felt sorry for me. It was a pity pick.” His voice takes on an edge. He’s upset, and I have no idea why. Maybe I did jab him too hard.

“Listen. I’m not sure what’s going on with you. I’m sorry I elbowed you. And I guess I’m sorry I picked you first in dodgeball, though that seems like an odd thing to hold a grudge about after all this—”

“It’s not a grudge. That’s not the point. Don’t you see?” Chris lets out a frustrated groan and again shifts his gaze toward the sky.

“No. I don’t see.” I grab his chin and turn it toward me. “Explain.”

He blinks and reaches up to grab my hand. “It’s …” His voice trails off, and for a moment, sitting so close, I feel as though I’m swallowed up in his blue eyes. The sadness that lurks there disorients me. His hand slides down my wrist and up my arm. His touch is so light, so tentative. I lean toward him, silently willing him to keep going, to run his hands over my shoulders, up to my neck, to draw me close, and—

His cell phone rings, and he pulls away, snapping me back to reality. He checks the screen and sighs. “Sorry.”

“Is that Lindsay?”

“Yeah.”

“You should take it.” I choke the words out. What’s wrong with me? Chris has a girlfriend. One he has asked to prom. A girl I set him up with, for crying out loud. I need to wake up and deal with it.

Chris wanders across the court. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his tone of voice is uncharacteristically sharp. They’re obviously still arguing.

Chris slips his phone into his pocket and trudges back toward me. “I gotta go.”

“Everything okay?”

“She’s having issues with her mom right now. I feel like she needs someone to talk to.”

I nod and wave him toward his car. “Go. Definitely. You’re a good boyfriend.” It’s true. I only wish I weren’t so petty as to hold that against him.

He pauses as he opens his car door. “I’m really sorry, Lex. Rain check?”

I give him a thumbs-up. “Sounds good.” This morning isn’t turning out the way I’d planned anyway. Why can’t Chris just tell me what’s bothering him? We’ve been best friends for eight years—or at least I thought we have. Who knew he resented being picked first in dodgeball? What other transgressions has he been holding against me all this time?

I grab the ball and challenge myself to a game of half court hero. Spin to the left, spin to the right, up and … swish! Holy cannoli. I turn to see if Chris is watching, but he’s already pulled away. I spend the next half hour trying to repeat the shot and wondering whether something can legitimately be called a rain check when there’s not a cloud in the sky.