The wind bit at my face forcing me to pull the collar of my thermal shirt tighter, stuffing my hands deeper into the pockets of my sweatpants. It was officially fucking freezing. Winter in Minnesota wasn’t exactly known for its mild weather, but here we were. Declan’s breath misted in thick clouds around his bright red hair.

“You gonna stand there and freeze, Olly, or are we doing this?” he yelled, his voice carrying clearly in the cold air. He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes that I knew too well.

I sighed, pulling my hands out and trying to shake the cold out of my fingers. “Yeah, yeah. Just trying to put off frostbite long enough to kick your ass.”

“It’s not event that cold today. Character building,” Declan chirped back, tossing the ball to me. It felt hard and cold against my numb fingertips.

“Alright,” I said, stripping off my hoodie and tossing it onto the patch of icy grass next to the driveway. Declan did the same, revealing a long-sleeved grey shirt that clung to his tiny frame. His messy red hair seemed to catch the weak sunlight filtering through the bare tree branches. Even shivering, he had this bouncing-off-the-walls energy about him.

“Loser buys pizza?” he suggested, already dribbling towards the hoop.

“Loser buys pizza,” I agreed, falling into my usual defensive stance.

The first game was brutal, and not just because of the cold. Every time we’d drive towards the hoop, a gust of wind would nearly knock us off balance. My hands were stiff and slow, fumbling the ball more than once. Declan, somehow, seemed less affected - he joked that he was too small to catch the breeze. He’d weave around me, a tiny blur, his elbows a little sharper than necessary, his trash talk constant.

“Come on, Olly, where’s the hustle?” he’d tease, sinking a layup. “You’re moving slower than a sloth on ice!”

“My fingers are numb, you bitch!” I’d retort, trying to shoot a three-pointer that went wide thanks to a gust of wind.

He’d laugh, that loud, cocky sound. We jostled for position under the net, our bodies bumping. At one point, I drove to the basket and felt his hand slap hard against mine just as I released the ball. It arced too high, hitting the backboard with a clank.

“That was a foul!” I protested, rubbing my stinging hand.

He just shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “That was defense. Don’t be a bitch.” This was his game, nonstop cocky trash talk.

The game was neck-and-neck the whole way. Neither of us could pull away. We’d trade baskets, often missing because of the cold or just sheer fatigue from trying to move through the icy air. I swear I could feel the sweat freezing on my back. Finally, tied at 10-10 (we were playing to 11), I had the ball. I tried to fake left and drive right, but he was quicker. He stepped in front of me, knocking the ball loose. He scooped it up and took a quick shot from just inside the free-throw line. It banked in clean.

“YES!” he yelled, pumping his fist. “Game one, baby!”

I groaned, leaning against the pole of the basketball net, panting, my breath coming out in thick white clouds. “Barely.”

“Barely still counts,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. His hand felt surprisingly warm through my shirt. “Ready for game two, or you gonna retire defeated?”

“Oh, I’m not letting you get away with just one win,” I said, pushing off the pole. “Even if I have to lose feeling in my extremities.”

Game two was colder, if that was possible. The air seemed to bite deeper. Our movements were a little more sluggish, but the competitive fire was still there. Declan’s teasing ramped up, especially when I missed a shot or fumbled the ball.

“Olly, you’re bringing shame to the gay community with this shit play.” He stuck his tongue out at me.

“Shut up and guard me, ginger boy,” I snapped back, managing a smile.

He drove hard towards the net, and I cut him off. We collided slightly again, shoulder to shoulder. “Whoa there, hot stuff,” he said, pulling back, his eyes twinkling. “Trying to get handsy?”

My stomach did a little flip, but I tried to play it cool. This was exactly the kind of banter I was trying to lean into.

“Trying to get you worked up so you’ll get overconfident.” I smirked back.

“Keep dreaming” he said, clearly enjoying the attention.

Tied at 10-10 again. Declan had the ball this time.

He dribbled slowly, his eyes darting, looking for an opening. I stayed low, trying to read him. He faked a drive left, then spun right, hitting a quick fadeaway shot just as the ball seemed to slip from his fingertips.

It arced up, seemed to hang in the air for a second, then dropped through the net with a soft swish.

“GAME!” he roared, throwing his hands up in triumph. “Two-nil loser!”

I stared at the hoop, then at him. “You serious?”

He just grinned, panting now as much as I was. His messy hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. “I’ll take the most expensive pizza!”

“Ugh,” I groaned, pulling my hoodie back on, and ordering the fastest delivering pizza to my house, my body already starting to shiver uncontrollably now that we’d stopped moving.

“Man it feels good to win” he said, pulling his on too. We grabbed the ball, and he bounced it as we shuffled towards the house, the sound much softer now against our chattering teeth.

Inside, the warmth hit us like a wave. We shed our outer layers in the entryway, leaving a small mountain of sweaty clothes and stripping down to underwear and shirts. Declan had on these classic giant straight boy boxers that fell about a foot off his body and almost reached his knees, revealing little to nothing about his figure.