“Oh and seven!”
Uncle Ben rocks off the couch to his feet. Pants unbuckled, hanging past his hips. He slaps the blue star on my chest.
“Ain’t no cowgirls here, son.” Turkey bits stuck between his teeth. “Go on back to Dallas.”
“I’d love a frozen banana dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with salt,” she tells him as she licks peanut butter from the spoon and drops it into the jar between her thighs. “Not too sweet. I can’t take anymore midnight penalty kicks.”
My half-emptied water bottle droops to the side as the plastic melts. Water leaks from my ice towel, sizzling in puddles on the court. He tosses the ball up, serves 142mph down the center. I let it pass. Anything for a breeze.