"Do too! You bite your lip when you go to make the shot, chief, just like when you c--"
Blair made an unsuccessful lunge for the ball before Jim's last statement had him stumbling over his own feet. "Geez, Jim!"
Jim sighed as Blair frantically-- and needlessly, of course-- scanned the far end of the court, looking relieved to find all the participants at Major Crime's annual cookout lounging after the game. Their water bottles, soda bottles, or beer bottles in varying states of emptiness were receiving far more attention than him and Jim anyway.
"What, you think they don't know? They're detectives, genius. Hell, they knew before you." Jim's cocky grin grew as he tossed the ball over his head, one handed, into a perfect arc, a beautiful shot. That landed about thirty feet off target. Unless the target was the truck, rather than the basket.
Blair checked, and sure enough, Jim's cocky grin hadn't wavered.
He answered with one of his own, and took off toward the ball. "They did not."
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