Page 82 of The Wrong Move

When we finish the final sprint, I suck in as much air as I can and line up again.

“What are you doing, man? We’re done,” Brandon says, patting my shoulder, still out of breath.

“I’m not. It’s my fault. I’ll do another five.”

“Sorry, mate. You’re on your own. I’m heading to the showers.”

“BJ, tell Byron we have hot and cold therapy waiting,” Leroy shouts.

I raise a hand as I sprint. “One more,” I shout back. I finish the last lap and walk the tunnel toward the new ice bath and sauna facility next to our locker room.

Coach waits outside the door. “We good?”

“Yeah, we’re good.”

His gray eyebrows tighten, the indents around his eyes deepening. “Don’t make what happened last weekend a habit.”

“No, sir,” I say before pushing open the door.

I shower, then head to the ice bath. Leroy and Brandon are still in the bath.

“Fuck,” I say, lowering myself until my shoulders are covered.

“Hurts so good,” Brandon sings.

Wolf-whistles sound. I turn as Charlotte walks into the room, her heels clicking on the floor as she passes some of my teammates who have it all hanging out.

What the fuck?

I hate it when the guys walk around without their towels, but it all goes straight over Charlotte’s head.

“I have a surprise for you all,” she calls out. “You may want to thank me for getting us in at the Ritz-Carlton in Abu Dhabi,” she almost sings. “Luxury at its finest. But remember, you are there to win games. It isnota vacation.”

She walks over to Coach.

“Can I lie with you on the beach, Lottie?” Simpson calls out.

I glare at him, then turn to focus on the way she talks to Coach. Is that how he knew about the details of my trip?

“Ignore him,” Brandon remarks.

“Coach?”

“No, Simpson. Don’t let him get under your skin. That’s his aim.”

“Yeah, but when he says shit like that to my sister, I want to smash his face in.” Brandon laughs, but there’s a nervousness there that surprises me. “You know I wouldn’t, though, right? It’s just bro code. While he doesn’t respect me, I respect him as a teammate and wouldn’t do anything to ruin the team bonding this close to the season starting. Still, I can’t help feeling pissed off.”

“He pisses me off, too,” Brandon mutters.

We hit our knuckles together.

“One week,” he says.

“Abu Dhabi, baby.” I can’t fucking wait to play.

Brandon throwsme the ball Friday morning, and I hit a three-pointer closer to the center circle.

“Keep them coming,” I shout. I practice these shots at the end of training to perfect a game-winning shot when the clock is in the dying seconds. The fans think it’s luck and their prayers answered, but it’s a shot we practice over and over, so when we’re under pressure, I’m not relying on the paradox of luck—only the fact I’ve perfected a pressure shot by practicing it a thousand times before.

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