With a challenge.

“Damn it.” You think to yourself as you keep stone faced. It is bad enough your gorgeous new neighbor now hates you, but this intelligent, articulate, well educated and extremely attractive female candidate is now what stands between you and your political future. You are loathed to admit it, but Samantha Kendrick is going to be hard to beat.

“You are actually going to keep that butt ugly thing on your lawn?” She quips with a condescending wave of her hand.

“Oh yes,” You retort, knowing you can't back down now, “and I have another 500 in the garage.”

“Same here,” the buxom beauty points to her house, “but at least I remembered to put my web address on mine.” Sam smirks with an arrogant grin of superiority. “You have heard of the internet, haven't you Lib?” Shaking her head dismissively she continues, “You really don't have a chance, do you?”

“I will take a chance with my campaign any time.” You fire back.

“Oh, so you think you're gambler?” Sam looks over at the basketball net above your garage and points to it. “Care to put your money where your mouth is?”

“What are you taking about?” You respond in a contemptuous voice hiding the fact you're taken aback by how forward and sharped tongued your challenger is. You are accustomed to the stayed environment of academia, not the rough and tumble world of business and finance.

“Not to sharp, are you Lib.” The shapely conservative mocks you. “Too much time living in the fantasy land of the ivory tower? Well let me spell it out to you slowly. I challenge you to a round of twenty free throws. The loser has to give up all their signs.”

“Deal.” You immediately answer without much thought. “And the loser has to carry all their signs over to the winner's garage one at a time.” You up the ante with sole focus of wiping that arrogant grin from the fiery redhead's face.

“That could take all day!” She objects.

“Typically one-percenter,” it is now your turn to mock, “afraid to get your little corporate hands dirty?”

“Fine!” Her eyes blaze with anger, “and the loser has to do it in their underwear!”

“Fine!” You both almost yell at each other, responding out of pure emotion, instead of actually thinking about what your saying.

Silence descends over your heated exchange as you glare at each other. The full implication of your rash wager begins to sit in. A thousand dollars worth of campaign material is bad enough, but running around the neighborhood in your underwear? Would she so cruel to take pictures and make them public?

You think you see a similar hint of doubt in Sam's bewitching stern hazel eyes. “To be fair,” you offer an olive branch in calm voice, thinking it might give her an honorable way out, “I should tell you that I played high school basketball.”

Sam thinks it over for a second, but her self-confident smirk returns. “And at Harvard I played guard for the Lady Crimson.” The cocky conservative walks passed you, up your driveway and brazenly into your open garage. “Where do you keep your balls, Lib?” You hear from inside.