Page 33 of Courtside

He could see Chuck’s wide grin under the warm porch lights. “Hey, I’m a coach,” he said, shrugging his skinny shoulders. “I’m really good at telling other people what to do. Doesn’t mean I’ve got it all figured out for myself.”

The conversation moved on from there to the topics they typically discussed: family, how strange college kids were these days, and their plans for their annual spring trip with their close group of friends out to the lakehouse on Lake Murray.

It was late when David bundled up a snoozing Daisy and made the short drive back to his apartment. As he crawled under his simple navy blue sheets, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Chuck had said. That maybe his past girlfriends hadn’t felt like he’d believed in them.

He’d always been drawn toward women who were capable and strong. Fatima had been a goddamn lawyer. He’d known she was able to take care of herself.

He’d believed in her.

Hadn’t he?

CHAPTER9

SO UTTERLY ALONE

SAGE

Sage walked down the wide hallway, following David and Coach Dixon, barely registering their urgent, hushed conversation as they walked to the locker room at half time.

The team’s first preseason game was off to a rough start. It was typical for teams to play at least one game before the official start of the season. The games were viewed as a trial, and often featured a shifting roster that served to give players the chance to prove themselves before the launch of the regular season.

Sage was barely holding it together.

When she’d walked out of the players’ entrance into the gymnasium before the game, there had been a sharp pinch in her chest and a heaviness that settled on her shoulders at the sight of the bleachers slowly filling with students, the gleaming wooden floors with the green eagle painted mid-flight in the center circle, and the new nets hanging from the baskets.

If she hadn’t had a job to do, Sage would’ve gotten the fuck out of there. She would have turned right around and torn off her low heels, running and running and running until the bright lights faded and the burning in her lungs drowned out thewhat-might-have-been’s.

But there hadn’t been time for that.

She’d needed to make sure the bench was stocked with the team water bottles and that the balls were in position for warm ups. She’d forced herself to breathe, trying to fill her lungs completely with every inhale, wiping her sweaty hands against her slacks and focusing only on what was in front of her.

And she had. As soon as the team started warming up, the pain faded to a dull ache that was easy enough to ignore. Her attention was pulled to making sure the players’ names and numbers were accurately written in the official book, and then loading up the tablet where she would be taking in-game stats.

While the team warmed up, David paced in front of the bench, alternating between shoving his hands into the pockets of his navy slacks and snapping his fingers absently at his sides. If the guys on the court looked nervous, then David looked positively terrified.

But she hadn’t had time to think about it, as the horn signaled the countdown to the start of the game.

As soon as the ref tossed the ball up and the game began, tracking stats required every bit of her attention. She made note of where on the court players were taking shots, and documented passing errors, rebounds, and assists.

It was a different side of the game than what she’d experienced as a player. As a player, her world had narrowed the second that she stepped onto the court. Instinct took over, and while she’d been trained to keep an ear out for her coach’s voice, she would fall into the flow of the game like a fish swept along in a current.

But now, she watched the game from the outside, noticing patterns and missed opportunities. Her feet twitched in her heels as she felt her body react to an opening that she, were she on the court, would have immediately taken advantage of. It was excruciating to be on the sideline, but there was also a sense of appreciation for the beauty of the game that caught her off guard.

Southeastern, though, was playing horribly. Passes weren’t connecting, shots were rushed, and their defense fell apart the second the offense attacked the basket.

It wasn’t like there was a lack of skill on the court. No, they were all undeniably talented. But it almost looked like each player was going at a different speed. Like they were going to the right places and making the right passes, but no matter what their timing was off.

They’d finished the half down 15 - 48 against a team who, on paper, they should have been evenly matched with.

As she slipped into the locker room behind David and Coach Dixon, she looked more closely at David. She’d heard his voice barking out plays throughout the first half, his efforts to sound encouraging quickly giving way to frustration as their play continued to decline.

Now, his shoulders drooped, his brows were knit low over his eyes, and his expression was tight as he stood at the edge of the locker room. The guys sat on the low benches, their jerseys drenched in sweat, and their gazes cast down onto the floor. Only Jenks and Monty looked up, and while they both were clearly frustrated, they looked directly at David.

Sage hung back as David and Coach Dixon both said their piece. Neither of them said anything surprising: it was a lot oftalk to your teammates, hustle back on defense,andyou’re a team, damnit.

“How many turnovers do we have?”

David turned to look over his shoulder at where Sage stood leaning against a metal locker. She quickly navigated through the game software on the tablet. “Ten.”

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