Two hours before game time, there's a lost look about Kenyon, like something is missing, something that he can't find or even define but needs to have in order for everything to work properly. He can't put his finger on it, because if he could there would be a chance he could find it.

It doesn't help that Jason is distracting him as best as he can, with bounce passes that are sinfully sexy and no-looks that can leave anyone weak. Jason does that to him all the time. What happens in bed is almost unimportant, takes down the level of what they have when it comes to the game. He submits to having the sex just so come next fast break the ball will be in his hands and he'll force it down the hole. To him that's a greater thrust, a more powerful feeling of ecstasy that spreads over his body.

Jason, of course, could care less that he's doing this to Kenyon; he gets a kick out of starting something that they can't finish, like they're walking a thinning tightrope. Bad enough that they come this close to scenes in the locker room after hard-fought close wins when the adrenaline almost gets the better of them. Bad enough they make a racket on road trips to the point where Richard almost knows. All that is bad enough, but Jason doesn't think so; he needs to live on the edge of danger so his passes will have that extra zing.

The team is immersed in their warm-ups and drills, though there's something wrong with the picture, since they got the news about Alonzo. Heads are down, shots are flat, faces are long. KeyArena seems even more alien than it did before. What a time to lose a leader- right on the cusp of a West Coast road trip. It doesn't seem right, or fair, or any of those things that Kenyon secretly believes in.

He still hasn't forgiven himself for his quick words of taunting last week. There are times when he lets his temper and his immaturity get the better of him and that was the perfect example. Alonzo said it was okay, said that he understood more or less, but Kenyon still hasn't allowed himself to believe that it's all right. Irrational guilt nudges him to believe that it was the stress of their confrontation that worsened Zo's condition and forced him to retire.

But why is he obsessing over this? Why is he letting it get to him in a way that nothing else has since Jason almost went to the Spurs?

"Oh, shit." Comparing it to a situation with Jason makes things so much clearer that it's confusing why he didn't know before. But how? It doesn't make sense. Unless...

Of course. Kenyon knows now why he ridiculed 'Zo- to get his attention, to make 'Zo see him. He'd seen it on the playground all the time- when guys wanted to get someone's attention, someone's favor, they were cruel and harsh, so Kenyon had found that to be the proper approach.

He's fallen in love, fallen for- but is he in love with the man, or the ideals that make up the man? Is it the specific person, or the never-say-die, never-give-up, bringing-it-one-hundred-percent attitude that has drawn him? God, could this be the first time he's ever even known someone who cared so much about the game?

Whatever happened to a time when it was all about the love of the game? Whatever happened to the days before prep-to-pro and shoe deals and mix tapes? Kenyon can hardly remember those days, but instinctively he sees 'Zo as a link to the ideals, to a time when the game was pure and perfect. A strange sentiment to be coming from a born dunker whose game is like a thunderstorm to be sure.

Jason catches sight of his distraction, calls to the rookie to take over practice; the kid nearly wets himself with excitement, something that would not look well on the gray shorts. "K-Mart, what's wrong?" he asks quietly.

"Shit," Kenyon says eloquently.

"Don't fuck with me. Not here. Not now."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Then stop fucking around and tell me what's the matter."

"Hell no. Not here. Not now."

"Oh, for God's sake." Jason throws his hands in the air, a dramatic gesture Kenyon is surprised that no one notices. "Fuck, Kenny-" Kenyon hates that nickname to the point of nausea- "Are you fucking a cheerleader or something?"

"I'm not fucking anybody. Right now, you're on that list."

"All I've tried to do is talk to you."

"When I don't want to talk. Fuck off."

"No. Zoran needs to get used to the team and you need to talk." Jason adopts an attitude that Kenyon has only seen before in Easter Island statues, crossing his arms and planting himself firmly in Kenyon's path out.

"I don't need to talk. That's girl shit. We don't talk about our feelings." Kenyon puts a sarcastic, nasal twist on the last few words.

"You said it was about your feelings, not me."

"Fuck. Off. Now."

Jason comes closer, pressing his advantage, knowing that Kenyon will give in to him because Kenyon always does. He knows what Kenyon wants, the give and the take and the shudder and the thunderous roar and the screams at night. He knows that he's not the only one who can give Kenyon everything, or even anything, but that he's the best at it. He waits confidently, knowing that Kenyon will cave.

It takes a while of glaring and staring, and Coach Scott comes over a couple of times to make sure that they haven't suddenly turned into wax dummies. Almost, Jason gives up. Then Kenyon says, "I hurt him. And now it's all fucked up."

"Shit happens. Trash talk happens. He's over it. You apologized."

"Fuck, Jay, it's like- fuck. It's like this. It's like better. It's like what we wanted as kids."

Jason is not stupid, excepting the occasional sentence that should never have gotten past the filter, never got to be a top-notch point guard by being blind to all possibilities. "You are a fucking idiot."

"No shit. Had that all figured out before you came over here. Are you going to say anything else obvious, or can I do what I want now?"

"You tell me. How serious is it?"

"Fuck, Jay, how serious is this?"

Jason stops dead, all miscellaneous twitches stilled, his focus steady. "I don't like to think about that."

"I know." Kenyon looks awkward, something he rarely does. "And I know it's never serious. Especially not what I want. But fuck, if it could be, it would be. I know that. He'd take it seriously if he took it at all, because he's not the kind to not take it seriously. I know I'm a fucking idiot, but I'm not a damn fucking idiot. I know I got nothing. Now, do you want to shut the hell up and get off this topic?"

Jason claps him on the shoulder nervously, even though it's a perfectly normal gesture between guys, between teammates. "You'll get over it," he says with the calm assurance of his years in the league. "Someday I'll tell you about the crush I had on the Shorts."

"The Shorts?"

"Someday you'll know," Jason promises. He leaves the conversation and twitches his fingers; as if by magic, a ball appears in his hands. His game is magic, or it is when things go right; when things don't work, he looks like a cheap stage magician trying to pull rabbits out of faded top hats, watching coins slip between his fingers and scarves fall out of his sleeves.

But when things do work, he's the dream that Kenyon can cling to. When the passes cut between two helpless defenders, or fly through the air unerringly to his hands, Kenyon falls in love all over again. He's a sucker for a no-look pass, an idiot in the face of the high lob.

But he's not the only idiot in this relationship, not if Jason thinks that crushes can be put aside so easily.