Page 1 of Play Maker

Chapter1

The Draft

Kolby

The draft ends while Deborah is crying into the couch cushions. Not big, ugly sobs. Just those soft, broken little sounds. I know that sound, the one that you make you when you feel like you did something unforgivable without even knowing what or how.

I sit there on the edge of the sectional, elbows on my knees, watching the TV scroll through names that aren’t mine.

Seventh round. Last pick. Mr. Irrelevant.

And I wasn’t even irrelevant enough to get picked.

Deb sniffles again, dragging her sleeve across her face. “I just … I don’t get it,” she says, voice cracked around the edges. “You worked so hard. I told everybody. I told my parents. I told all our friends.”

I nod, because what else can I do?

No one’s gonna be madder about it than I already am.

No one’s gonna feel it heavier.

It’s not just the career that would keep me focused and moving forward. It’s all I ever wanted.

“You should’ve pushed harder,” she mutters so low I almost miss it.

“More camps, more showcases. You just … you never know how to market yourself, Kolby.”

The words land soft, but they sting all the same. Not because she’s yelling, but because she isn’t.

She’s right, isn’t she? I didn’t market myself enough. I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’twin.

I don’t get mad. I don’t argue.I’m not him.I just let the guilt settle into the cracks of my chest and stay there.

I have a degree, I’ll be okay.

She slides off the couch and stands up. “I need to take this dress off and just … I need to go to sleep.”

I turn off the TV and sit back, fingers linked behind my head, looking down at the suit she made me wear so I didn’t look like an idiot when she was filming my call foroursocial media.

I’m wearing a suit; she’s wearing a designer dress and even had her hair done. I rented a suit to celebrate, using up almost all of the NIL money I’d saved, knowing I’d need it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The only sound is my deflating ego, and the shower just barely muffling her so when my phone buzzes and vibrates in my pocket, it’s like a scream.

For a second, I don’t even move. I don’t want to see another buddy post a “Drafted, Baby!” story. Don’t want another Lincoln teammate’s highlight reel shoved in my face like salt in a wound. But part of me finds comfort in pain, so I pull it out.

The screen lights up.

Coach Darden.

I swipe the message open with a thumb that still feels numb.

Coach D:

Don’t give up, Kolby. It’s not the end. It’s just the part where you find out how bad you want it

I stare at the words until they blur.

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