She liked Tyler’s room. There was a large coffee stain on the fluffy carpet next to his desk. A miniature basketball hoop is stuck to the back of his door, the tiny basketballs strewn everywhere. As well as a seven month old metal detector collecting dust under his unmade double bed.
Tyler was practising kicking his ball in his back yard. Three steps back and three steps left. He started his run up. BAM! His Nike limited edition shoes made contact with the fading Gilbert ball. The ball slammed into the crossbar, the wobbly, homemade goal post swaying like a ship in a stormy sea.
Tyler looked up at Miranda with a grim face. He slowly walked over, almost dragging his feet. His hands drooping at his sides. As he got closer, Miranda noticed thick beads of sweat smothering his handsome face. When Tyler reached her, he tiredly said, “Hi. How are you?” With a long, slurring wheeze in between each word. Miranda looked down at his sweat drenched Canterbury shirt and uttered, “How long have you been doing this for?”
“Enough time,” he replied, looking at the goal post.
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