Page 126 of Loving the Legend
I hang my head as I walk back to the bench. I know what’s coming. It’s the third quarter, and only four of my twelve shots have landed. It’s been three months since the season kicked off, and my game has been shit for most of it. A quarter of the way through the regular season, we’re suffering through a soul-crushing losing streak, coming in tenth place in the Western Conference. The only thing stopping us from trading places with any of the bottom five teams is a handful of losses. We need to turn this streak around fast.
“Ty, you’re out. Malik, you’re up,” Coach orders.
I crumple into the chair and throw my towel over my head. I stare at the floor, unwilling to meet Coach or my teammates’ disappointed faces. My skin crawls with humiliation. No one knows better than me what a fucking disappointment I am. And to top it all off, I haven’t a damn clue how to turn things around. When I’m not on the court, I’m training around the clock to try to make up for lost time this past summer. I’m up by five at the latest every morning to train, no matter what city I’m in. Outside of team practice, I train for a minimum of seven hours a day on my off days and four hours on game days. No other player can be putting in more work than me. Yet, I’m barely hanging on to my starter position. If I don’t turn it around—forget the starter position—there’s a good chance I’ll be traded. I’m supposed to be the franchise’s star point guard, and my shooting percentage puts me lower than the top twenty point guards in the league. I was in the top five last season as a rookie. It’s humiliating as fuck.
I’m failing everyone, including my parents.
When the final buzzer rings, I beeline straight for the locker room. We got our asses handed to us with a final score of 125–92.
As I pass through the tunnel, I hear, “You suck!”
I don’t bother shrugging it off.
Ain’t like it’s a lie.
After our post-game meeting, I’m back to work on the practice court. I bracket the ball between my palms and squeeze silently, pleading with it to work with me. Spending damn near every day of most of my teenage and adult life with a ball in my hands, I’m used to it feeling like an extension of me. My ball handling used to be my greatest strength. At times, it was effortless. I attempt plays I used to make in my sleep, and none of it lands. I don’t get it.
Two hours on the practice court pass in the blink of an eye. I’m about to hit a corner three when my hands freeze mid-air.
Shit!
I promised Sid I’d make it home before he headed out for a stretch of road games. No time to shower, I run to the locker room to grab my phone and car keys. I dial him from the road to let him know I’m running late. An acidic burn courses through my sternum when I get his voicemail. GPS alerts me of a car crash up ahead, putting my ETA over an hour out.
“Fuck,” I yell, gripping the steering wheel.
I spot a “Home of the LA Royals” billboard with a blown-up picture of Sid roaring after hitting a shot. Two miles later, I pass a billboard of me mid-dribble with my new sneakers blown up in the background. It might be my last advertisement. Companies tend not to back mediocre athletes.
I pull into the driveway and jump out of the car the second it’s in park.
I spot a limousine parked in front.
He’s still here.
“Babe,” I call out when I enter the house. As I kick off my sneakers, his phone lights up on the foyer table with notifications for my missed calls and texts from his teammate Arnaz. In addition to Sid, the Royals franchise recruited two high-scoring players to join the team: Johan Brent, center, fromAtlanta, and Arnaz Cade, shooting guard, from Philadelphia. Sid and Arnaz have become a dynamic duo on the court. They read each other like they’ve been playing together for years. It’s nuts.
I race up the steps, following music to our bedroom.
“Hey babe, sorry I—” I freeze in the doorway, my words catching in my throat.
Sid’s dressed impeccably, standing in the center of our bedroom fastening cufflinks. I’ve seen the Tom Ford dusty pink velvet tuxedo hanging in our dressing room all week, but damn, the way he fills it in is criminal. The pink accents his gorgeous skin and penetrating eyes. He’s grown out his hair. Sides tapered low, brownish-black coils piled neatly on top. Gone are the geometric shapes worn last season. A sexy beard accentuates the strong masseter muscles that define his jawline. I zero in on his defined biceps as he places his hands in his trouser pockets. Man, I’ve hit the jackpot. Wiping my sweaty palms against my jersey shorts, I swallow my drool. I still can’t look at him without experiencing a physical reaction. I’m glad I declined to be his plus-one tonight. There’s no way I could keep my hands off of him in public.
“Wow, babe. You’re a smoke show.”
His head darts up at the sound of my voice.
“Thanks,” he says flatly. “You’re still in your jersey.”
“Yeah, lost track of time and didn’t want to miss you…I thought we could…you know…before you left.”
“Yeah, er, sorry.” He stiffens. “Gotta bounce in the next ten minutes.”
“That’s enough time for me to blow you or—”
“No.”
I grimace. “Fine.” I turn to walk out. “Forget I mentioned it.”
“Hey…hold up. Sorry, I just meant there’s not enough time. I need to finish getting ready. Jett and Mom will be here any minute.”
