Page 4 of Loving the Legend
CHAPTER ONE
FIVE YEARS LATER
Tears blur my vision as I shake off the throbbing in my nose. There was a slim chance I’d escape this game without at least one injury. The Arsenals never met a bone that they didn’t want to bruise. I intercepted a pass in the first half, causing a loose ball. I dove for it. Chest sliding across the floor—fingertips a hair away from gaining possession—when a heavy force sent my face ricocheting off of the floor.
“What the fuck!”
My eyes stung as the taste of metal filled my mouth. I craned my neck and groaned when my face met with a dripping wet jersey. I shoved the opposing shooting guard, Chief Dickhead, off of me and slithered forward to take possession of the ball. I flipped to my back and scanned the floor for an open teammate when another blunt force, this one against my chest, had me buckling forward and choking for air.
The referee—who finally woke the fuck up—called a flagrant foul against Chief Dickhead for excessive contact, sending me to the line for two free throws. I tried to scrape myself off the floor, but a sharp pain locked me in place. Being bludgeoned by a steel bat had to be less excruciating. I hooked an arm around the necks of my two teammates, and on the count of three, I groanedas they set me upright. I zeroed in on the team doctor barreling toward me. She stuffed my bloody nose with cotton and rubbed pain relief cream on my torso.
“This doesn’t look good. You should sit—”
“Chill, Doc. I’m good,” I cut in.
If we have any chance of winning this game, then I have to be good. Not just good—incredible. And we need to win this game.Ineed us to win this game. This year, I’ll announce my plan to enter the NBA draft, and I’ve spotted pro scouts in the stands. I’ve balled like my life depended on it for the last four years. Tonight is no exception. I’ve posted a career-high of thirty-eight points.
We’re up one point, and it’s our possession, with less than twenty seconds left on the final game clock. No time to mess around, I yell to my teammates to get locked in. Laced with adrenaline, I race up the court. Cam feints passing the ball to me but passes it to our shooting guard instead. Only it’s intercepted by their power forward.Fuck!He flies down the court and tips it into the rim, taking the lead.
My heart is pounding like a war drum. Cam catches the next possession and wings the ball to me. I glimpse the game clock. This game boils down to the next eleven seconds. Their power forward may have five inches on my six-foot-four-inch height, but he is no match for my speed one-on-one.
He gestures to my nose. “Ain’t so pretty anymore.”
I evade his reach by crossing the ball between my legs. “You’re welcome to hop off my dick anytime.”
Jaw clenched, he pushes forward as I step back and release a long three-pointer.
A collective gasp rises from the crowd.
I flinch when the game clock buzzes, signaling the end of the game.
I ignore the voice in my head telling me I should’ve run it in, and glue my gaze to the ball as it hurdles through the air.
Why the hell did I shoot a long three?
Regret coils around my throat.
My gaze drops to the floor—if I keep looking, I might pass out. Honestly, passing out doesn’t sound half bad right now.
A rushing sound echoes through the arena.
My head pops up, and I palm my temples in disbelief as the ball emerges through the bottom of the net.
We did it.
No fucking way.
We did it!
My legs are about to give out when I’m tackled by my teammates and hoisted into the air.
My ears ring from the roar of the crowd.
Ain't nothing like home court.
I wince when someone slaps my chest.
“Easy, easy,” Cam yells, but the guys are hyped.
