Page 43 of Scoring the Player
He’s defending everyone but me.
Nick drives to the paint with a clear path to the rim. Their power forward, Zyair, jumps up to contest the shot, but he’s no match for Nick’s speed. The crowd makes noise as Nick sets up for a layup. Then Salem curves in, the run-up so swift each step barely sweeps the floor before he surges through the airand denies the shot with a force that sends a line of reporters ducking. Landing in a squat, he straightens tall and then glares at Nick over his shoulder as he walks away.
I groan.
I willnotbe cashing out on that at the spank bank later tonight.
Definitely not.
I need to kick my nightly internet stalking habit.
But damn, the algorithm is tight.
It feeds me the compilation of him humiliating guys on the court.Ngh.I never last until the end.
And the one where he’s being interviewed wearing slacks. Snug-fitting slacks.
Great, pop a semi in front of tens of thousands of people.
And it keeps recycling goodies. Like the tour of his house with him lit up in the kitchen—for fuck’s sake, that smile.
Ugh, the hell am I grinning for?
“I got ball,” I yell when Cillian takes possession, and I move in to defend him.
“You got shit,” Cillian fires back, dribbling forward.
We’re down seven points, 45–52, with a little under five minutes left until halftime, but I’m not worried.
Squatting low, I keep one hand up to block any pass attempts, my other hand reaching in, tracking the ball. He hesitates, and if I were a rook, I’d jump or push in, especially the way his eyes keep darting to the rim like he’s about to charge. But the ball tells another story, and if I wait just one more…
He hesitates mid-crossover, and I lunge forward and swipe the ball.
Cookies!
Winging it behind my back to Sid, he makes a fast break. No one’s catching him.
I nod to Cillian. “Tell Papa what you learned in school today.”
He claps back, but I mouth,I can’t hear youas the crowd roars. Racing backward, my heel thuds against something, causing me to stumble, but a palm to my spine keeps me from falling.
“My bad.” I turn and face Salem.
“No problem,” he mutters before racing away.
Brrr.
Wide open on the next possession, Cillian feeds him the ball on the perimeter. He stares at me as I charge toward him, then he changes pace to a slow dribble, the kind that saysthis play is mine, the defender can’t contain me. He pushes forward as I close in and releases a jumper that sinks through the net.
He’s expressionless as he backs away, and it gets under my skin more than when he’s in my face.
“Hey—” I call out just as our coach calls a time-out.
I can’t tell if he heard me. He keeps walking and doesn’t turn around.
“I’m eating for five right now,” Sid says as he catches up to me. “Good D, but we need you to cook.”
“Night’s young, dahlin’. Don’t trip.”
