Author's Note: Hey guys, sorry about the wait. I've been pretty busy lately, so I've had literally no time for relaxing and doing what I want to. But somehow I've found a way, so here's the new chapter. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Zoey 101 and all related characters are not my own.

Court Company: Logan
Friday, November 18th, 2006 ( 7:22 pm)


Smack.

The sound of the basketball slamming against the concrete ricochets through my mind, echoing, empowering. With each step I come closer to the basket, the quick crash of the ball against the pavement matching the pace of the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Wham.

I fake right and sidestep quickly, pulling up and releasing. With a swift, fluid motion the ball sails onto the rim and topples through the basket. I sprint to catch the ball once more, the crowd in my head going wild for my latest shot.

Grabbing hold of the ball I try my hand at a reverse lay up, pounding the ball once, twice, shot… and he misses the basket by at least a foot, something I can't afford to do. Coach told me that I need to improve, or my chances of making the team this year will be slim to none. Of course, I kept his 'advice' to myself; everybody expects me to be the best. And hey, who can blame them?

Pushing the failure out of my head, I clear my mind, focusing on the ball and the basket. Standing at the foul line, I position the ball above my forehead, visualizing the orange sphere cutting neatly through the chain link basket. Knees bent, teeth grinding, sweat dripping down my forehead, I hold the ball steady, ready to release…

"Ogni talento matta," muses an undoubtedly female voice, causing me to leap about a foot into the air. Startled, I turn in the direction of this declaration, only to be frozen to the spot when I stand face to face with her.

She's perching cross-legged on one of the many metal bleachers surrounding the basketball court, staring intently at the plexiglass backboard of the hoop. The steady pace of my heartbeats quickly picks up, threatening to batter a hole through my chest. Those lips, those eyes: that girl. I don't even attempt to look away; it would be close to impossible. She takes no notice of my gaze.

I hold the ball securely under my arm, face flushed from the exercise.

"What?" I ask between panting breaths.

"Ogni talento matta," she repeats.

"Yeah, I got that. But what is it supposed to mean?" More than a year apart (not counting the past few days) and she still treats me like a simpleton.

"Every talented man is a madman," she translates, eyes unblinking and still focused on the painted lines of the backboard.

I raise an eyebrow at this comment, coincidentally at the exact moment that her eyes lower until they're staring straight into mine.

This is the part where I pretend I'm not transfixed.

"Offended?" she questions, a half-smirk forming on her face.

"Not in the least," I shoot back. "I am talented, after all."

I take a shot as if to prove my point. The ball misses the basket by at least two feet.

She snorts – I shrug it off.

"I'm talented in other areas as well," I say suggestively, leading her on.

She rolls her eyes, taking the bait. "Like what; being arrogant?"

"Well, yeah. I'm also spectacular at making out…" I pause, awaiting a reaction.

And there it is. Dana groans, aware of what she's gotten herself into. Me.

"So… wanna make out?" I ask her, flashing a winning smile.

"I've been sitting here not even fifteen minutes, and you're already posing that question?"

"You should be looking at it as you've been gone a year and four months and the offer's still open," I point out. The offer's still open, and I want it more than ever, is what I mean to say. But I don't.

"No thanks, I'm good for now," she replies, leaning back and resting her elbows on the bleacher behind her.

"Your loss, sweet cheeks," I answer with a carefree air, though inside I'm somewhat crushed. I'd forgotten how being rejected by Dana Cruz feels. On the bright side, however, I have all the time in the world to be reacquainted with it. She's not leaving again if I have any say in the matter. Which I will.

I launch the ball again, resuming my game. This time, my efforts are rewarded with a swish. Two more points for Logan Reese. The rebound hits a crack in the ground at an odd angle, sending it spinning towards the sidelines. I watch as it rolls to a stop by Dana's bag. She looks down; her interest has definitely been piqued.

Not my intention, but hey, who am I to argue with fate?

She looks at me, eyebrow raised. I smirk: a challenge. She leaves her sitting position and grabs the ball, inspecting it for… I'm not exactly sure. She's always done that; sort of a ritual, I guess.

Dana approaches me, eyes never leaving the sphere as she twirls it in her fingers. She stops directly in front of me. I can feel my palms growing damp as a result of our proximity; she's too close for comfort.

Then again, I never said I wanted to be comfortable.

Oh no. She's bringing out that grin. Mischievous, crafty, alarmingly attractive: a grin that never fails to bring me to my knees (figuratively speaking, of course).

"Want to make it interesting?"

--------

20 seconds left on the clock; she fakes right, dribbles up the side of the key and bounces the ball at the box. I block it all with ease. Nine seconds left. She fakes right again. I block again. Seven seconds. She reverse pivots, I… don't block? What the hell?

She shoots, and with 3 seconds left, an orange blur sails through the netting, landing the score at 24-18.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

Final buzzer and I, Logan Reese, have just been defeated by a girl. A French girl, who I now owe breakfast for a week.

I slowly bend to pick up the ball, desperately trying to wipe the look of dismay off my face. Hurry up, hurry up. The sound of footsteps grows louder; come on. She can't see me like this; she'd get too much satisfaction. Two feet donning apple green slip-on Vans appear before my face.

Too late.

I make one last attempt and stand up, stretching.

Dana stands directly in front of me, arms crossed. She's grown since I've last seen her, but I've grown more. She stifles a laugh as I stretch my arms behind my head.

"Nice try, Reesey boy," she snickers. I look on innocently.

"Nice try? I don't understand what you're talking about."

She sighs, shaking her head. "You haven't changed, have you?"

"Depends; does that make you happy?" I grin at her, rotating my head to release the tension built up in my neck.

"No, guess you haven't," she remarks, answering her own question.

"Haha, very funny. So, what was all that talk about 'nice try'?" I ask her, noting the sun just beginning to set behind her. The sky is tinged with magenta and saffron, the sun a blazing tangerine.

"First of all: nice try in the game. I mean, I'm impressed you tried so hard when it was obviously a given that I would win."

Sounds to me like somebody else hasn't changed much either.

"And secondly, you can stop flexing your muscles. It's got no effect on me whatsoever," she finishes, smiling smugly at me.

I drop the ball and impulsively grab her wrist, pulling her slender, muscled frame into my own. She starts at this sudden contact, unwilling to relax in my arms. I can feel her pulse racing on the underside of her wrist. Pretty jumpy for somebody who I have "no effect on whatsoever". I lean my head down towards hers.

"Bull. Shit." I whisper into her ear, taking in the fresh scent of her raspberry shampoo. They say the sense of smell is one of the strongest ties to memory. Upon breathing in this familiar aroma, I have to agree.

My hands are dipping into the small of her back, pressing her to me. Her hands do not touch me; instead they lie at her sides, fingers fidgeting. I'm not really surprised that she isn't at ease in my hold; it is, after all, Dana Cruz. And I'm Logan Reese.

Odd coupling, I'd think.

She pulls away slightly, leaving room for her hands to rise up and rest on my chest. From the look in her eyes, I'm sure she's noticed the thudding of my heart. She pushes me away from her and I, reluctantly, bend to her will.

She's standing in front of me, running a hand through her cropped hair.

"Bullshit to your bullshit," she says finally, turning to walk away.

What? I'm speechless - dumbfounded, even. Why am I surrounded by insane people? I watch as she walks off the court, her stride a tiny bit less confident than usual.

"Th-that doesn't even make sense!" I yell after her. She lifts a hand over her shoulder and waves, without so much as a glance backwards. I take a seat on the bleachers, scrutinizing the sunset. It's captivating; powerful, seductive and amazingly defiant. Not to be outdone by the moon, the sun puts up one final display before falling into oblivion. Every night, without fail.

The whole show reminds me of her, to tell the truth. She makes a scene then promptly disappears. But just like the sun, I know she'll be back. I think back briefly to the sensation of her tanned hands on my chest and how they rested there, unafraid of my increasing heartbeat.

I should really stop thinking so much. I've got a reputation to uphold.

"Oh yeah," I say confidently, grinning as I walk off the court, ball under my arm. "She still wants me."

That's more like it.


Author's Note: Alright, so there you have it. You've just briefly gotten inside the mind of Logan Reese. Weird, isn't it? The next chapter is pretty much written, I just have to edit a bit more. But I promise, the wait won't be so long this time. Talk to you soon.