Impossible Is Nothing (An Iggy Azalea/Eminem Fan Fiction)

Chapter 6: Detroit Basketball

A couple days later

Marshall's P.O.V.

Proof and I were walking down the sidewalk, both of us wearing Detroit Pistons jerseys, basketball shorts, and pairs of worn-out sneaks on our feet. I had a basketball in my arms, dribbling it as we trod down. We were on our way to a basketball court in one of our favorite parks nearby.

It was fucking hot that day. I had no idea why it was, either. I felt like we should've went swimming instead, but eh, b-ball was more what we felt like doing.

We were talking about a few things, me and Proof, when he asked me this one question next: "You still don't know her name yet?"

He was referring to Bunny. I answered him. "She's not letting me know. I won't give mine until she spills hers. If she wants to play, then I'll play."

Proof was smirking a bit. "You even got her number?"

"No," I replied, a little glum. I dribbled the ball. "If I don't see her soon, I'll just stop by the club again. Wants to play fucking hard to get with me."

He laughed. "I think she likes you. She looked like it the other day. Oh, and how'd that date go?"

I smiled. "It was good. I felt closer to her. She even admitted she enjoyed it."

"That's great, dawg," Proof gave me a light push.

I chuckled, stopping my dribbling. I went to wipe some sweat off my forehead. "It's hot as hell," I commented, letting out a deep exhale. I almost felt like heading back home. It was about ninety degrees or something now. I think I was even catching a bad sunburn.

I was mostly walking off to the side, under the trees, trying my best to keep shady. Proof hadn't been saying anything in a while, so I looked over at him, checking up, when I saw that he did something crazy. When I wasn't looking, Proof had gone and taken his own shirt off. He was shirtless right now under the burning sun. 

"Yo, are you out your mind?" I started to scream at him. "You're going to fry!"

He turned, hollering back a smart ass comment. "No, I won't, I'm black, stupid. Black people got melanin in their skin. We don't burn," he went, joking mostly while saying it. He began whipping his shirt at me next.

I hated when he did that shit. It hurt some of the time, too. "Man, cut that out! Don't you mean you got melatonin?"

"It's melanin. One's a pigment and one's a drug. Maybe that's what you be on," he accused, whipping me again, continuing to make fun of the way I was going to burn.

I was just laughing back at him now, having a good time. Fuck, I couldn't be mad. Playing around with each other was something we did a lot of. We continued to mess around and do this until we got to the court.

Proof finally got his shirt back on as we played a few rounds of b-ball. We practiced shooting some hoops first before we actually went into a one-by-one game. When we did, we both were equally as good as the other. I kept saying that I was better, but Proof would just make a slam dunk and say that he was in return, even bringing up black people were naturally good at it since it's in their genes. Not this talk again. I'd just say back that tall people were better at doing it was all, it don't matter what color you are. And after, I'd do something off the top to show him wrong, like try and make a shot from all the way from the other side of the court and make it then. And we'd just laugh, forgiving each other, doing this whole cycle over and over.

We did this until something stopped me, catching my attention from past the court. Two girls walking by—a blonde wearing red Levi jeans with a cropped shirt and a brunette wearing some dress. I knew who the first was immediately: fucking Bunny. It was her, along with a friend. What were the damn chances?