"I'll take it." Eric knew her by now: he'd accepted that she was cutthroat. If he wanted to get high-and-mighty about her tactics now, he could shove it. "Kind of like how you made House sign off on the article without letting him reading it first." Going ahead of Cameron was an accident, but standing over House's desk until he got the signature was its own brand of cheating. Taking advantage of his pause as he processed her accusation, Amber darted to the side and sprang another shot. "Oh--" she said in fake surprise as ball rolled around the rim, sank into the hoop. "Whoops, now how did that happen. My fingers must've slipped.” Then, voice serious, “Seven to six."
After that, though, the going got tough.
He just. always. got. the ball. Even when Eric threw it hard at her for her turn on the offense, within seconds he'd be up against her, this time striking his hands out to paw the ball instead of her, or skidding around and in front of her, making her lose her balance and concentration. It worked, too; his points racked up. Even as Amber spent herself, tearing across the court and twisting around Eric so hard she knew she’d feel the ache all over tomorrow, nothing she did was good enough. One, two, three. Nine to seven. Eric could be winning this within seconds. But not on Amber’s turf. Never. Distractions were out, she’d more or less used up that card.
So Amber tackled him. He’d stepped in with his oh so advanced technique and made her lose the ball, and she wasn’t just going to let him score. His back was to her, advancing for the net, so it was easy to quickly wrap her arms around his chest—not tight, just enough to take him by surprise, and maybe give her the chance to put her hands on the ball and dribble it back to herself.
no subject
After that, though, the going got tough.
He just. always. got. the ball. Even when Eric threw it hard at her for her turn on the offense, within seconds he'd be up against her, this time striking his hands out to paw the ball instead of her, or skidding around and in front of her, making her lose her balance and concentration. It worked, too; his points racked up. Even as Amber spent herself, tearing across the court and twisting around Eric so hard she knew she’d feel the ache all over tomorrow, nothing she did was good enough. One, two, three. Nine to seven. Eric could be winning this within seconds. But not on Amber’s turf. Never. Distractions were out, she’d more or less used up that card.
So Amber tackled him. He’d stepped in with his oh so advanced technique and made her lose the ball, and she wasn’t just going to let him score. His back was to her, advancing for the net, so it was easy to quickly wrap her arms around his chest—not tight, just enough to take him by surprise, and maybe give her the chance to put her hands on the ball and dribble it back to herself.