Let Me Know by Stina Lindenblatt Read Free Book Online

team,” she says as we hold a pose, stretching our hamstrings.
    “I wish I was too.” Unfortunately some things weren’t meant to be. I can tell she wants to say something, but there’s nothing she can that would make me feel better. To make us both feel better.
    We head to the basketball courts. Several guys who look as if they could play varsity run up and down one court, playing hard. Sweat soaks through their clothing and drips down their faces. One guy passes the ball to a player who is barely open. The boy next to him reaches out, attempting to block the pass. He fails. The other player catches the ball and sets up for the shot. The ball swooshes through the net.
    On the next court, a couple of elementary school kids swing the oversized balls up from between their legs, aiming roughly for the hoop towering above them.
    Emma and I exchange looks, and without saying a word, jog to the teens as they charge down the court. The guy with the ball dodges left while passing the ball to a player on his right. The player catches it and performs a layup. The ball swishes through the net. He and his teammates high-five each other. The others groan.
    “Can we join you?” Emma calls from the sideline.
    They look us over. “Not interested,” a tall, dark-haired boy says, wiping sweat from his forehead.
    A blond boy jostles him. “Speak for yourself, Dunningham. These two ladies look my speed.” From the way he says it, it’s obvious he’s not referring to the game.
    “What speed?” Dunningham says. “You’re a virgin. You have no speed.”
    Blond Boy’s face turns the shade of Santa’s hat and he hurls the ball toward Dunningham. It bounces off his shoulder.
    “What the fuck was that for?” he grunts.
    Emma sashays along the sideline and scoops up an abandoned ball. “Now, boys. Play nice. My friend and I want to play. We’ll go easy on you. I promise.” She spins the ball on her fingertip.
    Something flickers on a few of their faces. It’s suddenly dawned on them that Emma and I are tall for girls. Five-foot, eleven-inches tall.
    “Okay, you’re in,” a red-haired boy, who’s all limbs, says. He points at me. “You’re with us. Your friend’s with Dunningham’s team.”
    Blond Guy jerks his eyebrows up and down his forehead, already over the proclamation of his virginal status.
    “Don’t get any ideas,” Emma warns, walking past him. “I have a boyfriend, and he’s four inches taller than you and about fifty pounds heavier.” Not that he has to worry about Liam, who lives in a town about a hundred miles from here.
    It doesn’t take the boys long to figure out just how good Emma and I are on the court. They challenge us, push us hard, expect us to play at their level. And we do, and so much more.
    We play for forty minutes before the guys announce they have to leave. On the way home, Emma and I pick up the few items I need for dinner.
    As I hammer the chicken breasts with the heavy wooden mallet, pretending it’s the defense lawyer for the upcoming trial, the phone rings. I rest the mallet on the chicken and grab my cell phone off the kitchen table. I don’t recognize the number.
    “Hello?” I answer.
    “Hello. I’m Roger Tucker with
The Chicago Post.
May I speak with Amber Scott, please?”
    Everything inside me clenches. How the hell did he find my number? It’s unlisted and I’m selective about who I give it to. “I’m not interested. If you have any questions, you need to inquire with the D.A.’s office.” I don’t wait for a response. I hang up.
    “What was that about?” Emma asks, a knife in one hand and a large tomato in the other.
    “It was nothing. Just some dumb reporter wanting to ask questions.” Who acted no different than a stalker by tracking down my phone number.
    An unexpected chill clutches me. I knock the sensation away. He’s doing his job. He’s not Paul.
    Emma studies the cookbook. “Now you have to dip the flattened breasts in the egg mixture, then coat