Crooked.

Two. [History]

[WINTER 2005 - 16 Years Old].

I still remember the first day I met him. Unkept black hair, tips wet from the drizzling rain and caramel brown eyes staring questioningly at me from under his hoodie. There was a basketball in his hands, twirling between his fingers so easily, but muscles taut.

I walked onto the court wearing my knee-length red basketball shorts and black malcolm x hoodie, black hair grazing past my shoulders and hitting mid rib-cage. His head was tilted upwards, the darkness accentuating his sharp cheekbones as his downward slanted eyes traced my every move in curiosity.

"Let's play," I broke the silence, footsteps echoing through the air as I walked towards him.

We were the only ones at the Riverside court that day. Usually it was hustling with basketball teams, rugby players, or a few girls on the side reading a book or gossiping. But today, it was eerily still and silent.

It had been three days since the storm had hit Vancouver and people were staying in. Electricity lines were broken and business was at a standstill. The downpour hadn't stopped for the last 72 hours. Floods threatened to rise onto streets and the cackle of thunder stopped even the birds from singing.

So that would explain why I was surprised to see a figure standing under a surviving streetlamp at the court dunking baskets like he didn't even notice the weather. Naturally, I was drawn to the image.

He narrowed his eyes, bouncing the ball between his hands.

"I don't think I know you."

"Of course not. But I don't see any other people around, so play me."

So play me.

If only I knew the consequences of those words. But at the time, I was young and searching for a thrill. That thrill came in the form of a basketball game that day, but eventually, it transformed into the shape of a certain basketball player.
That thrill became him.

He let out a small half-smile, barely there as one corner of his mouth lifted upwards. His eyebrows rose in challenge and he chest-passed the ball in my direction - and I was quick to catch it.

I mirrored the look he gave me; eyebrows raised and a smug smirk set on my lips.
"good."

We walked to the center, and exuding a little bit too much confidence for someone who hadn't even seem me play yet, he started, "I'm not easy. I'll let you start."

His voice was deep, a little broken and gravely - probably the farthest thing from velvety smooth.

Holding back a chuckle and letting the ball bounce on the cement, I watched him hike up his shorts and widen his arms in front of me, hawking the ball like it was a piece of meat.

That look.

I should have known what type of little fucker he would become back then,

just by seeing the determination, confidence and competitiveness that coursed through his blood and out his blazing eyes in that moment.

I began examining his defence and the environment, casually just bouncing the ball in one hand while the other arm stood out in protection. Trying to throw him off from reading my moves, I looked towards the right and then suddenly pushed past his left arm, dribbling the ball quickly while sprinting to the net. I could feel his heavy footsteps behind me, his arm gently grazing my side as he caught up faster than I thought. I twisted my torso so my back was facing him, while trying to protect the ball. His other arm came around the other side, so I was nearly caged but not quite. I could feel the fabric of his hoodie just touching the side of my hip - but he wasn't fast enough. I pushed him away from me and curving my arm, sent the ball swishing through the hoop.