Page 1 of Scoring the Player
PROLOGUE: ARNAZ
FIVE SEASONS AGO
“Wild Woods”
What wounded souls monsters make.
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
Welts from my rubber band thicken against my wrist.
“What’s the matter? Coach won’t let you play?”
I level my middle finger athim, Dallas’ power forward. Salem. Jones.
“Cade,” Coach warns.
I ignore him, so he redirects the warning. “Move along, Jones. Can we get through one game without you riling him up?”
Pop!
Pop!
“But it hurts to watch,” he continues. “It’s too sad. Why is he—yo, how are you sweating from sitting there?”
My finger levitates again, but our center steals his attention, cutting through their defense.
“Be right back,” he tosses my way, as if he’s earned a single fuck.
“Remember why you’re sitting there,” Coach reprimands, gaze tracking Jones, whose thick calves flex as he sprints away.
My jaw tightens, and I almost sail my finger Coach’s way.
Our center continues a fast break up the middle lane, lobs the ball toward the backboard, and sets up to catch the rebound. The shot would be smooth, except Asshole Jones plucks it out of the air and then launches it downcourt to the opposing point guard, who hammers it in.
The crowd’s roar vibrates under my feet as he races backward, arms outstretched, fingers curled, demanding more, and the sucker crowd answers, their bass drumming up my thighs.
Chin sinking into my jersey, my back slumps against the chair.
This score is an embarrassment.
Coach sticking me on the bench is an embarrassment.
Not to mentionthisfucker…There’s something about him. Something that makes me want to smash my head into his face until I’m numb.
On the next possession, he dominates our power forward. Too damn slow to get around Jones, he passes the ball to Dickhead Andrews, our reserve shooting guard, who executes sloppy footwork with the confidence of an All-Star and fires a fucking air ball.
I groan.
How’s Coach still punishing me for clocking him two weeks ago?Look at him.Dickhead had it coming.
Except now he has my starting spot.
“Coach.” Jones returns. “Put him in the game. I’ll pay you.” He pats his chest and non-existent pockets, then shouts to the scorer’s table, “Yo, Oldhead, let me borrow a twenty.”
