Page 5 of Scoring the Player
Sometimes the arrowhead is a mercy.
The sun retches up a tormenting darkness that sits in the middle of my chest. I mistook it for the beginning of the end once. I grew impatient waiting, so I went in search of it. Turns out chasing death upsets some people. So now I take tiny lime-green-and-white pills, and one of the side effects is endurance. Handy, since last season, the league transferred me to the sunniest city of ’em all, Los Angeles, when I only want to live an East Coast October forever. If it weren’t for my big homies, benzodiazepines and SSRIs, I’d never leave the house. They even managed to subdue the man who chased death to feel alive.
I’m no longer impetuous, but I did a thing.
I grew tired of hiding the fact that I love men, so I stopped hiding. And now everywhere I go, idiots ask me what it’s like to fuck guys and play basketball. And I’m supposed to pretend it’s not the most asinine question on the planet.
So many goddamn questions. Never mind the answers—they’ll write whatever the hell they want. Apparently, I’m dating my best friend. Well, if that were true, it would make this shit awkward.
“Tyler, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Metal coats my tongue as I drag the beer from my lips. The cold press of the bottle burns my palm despite the rush of heat spreading up my neck.
How am I cold and hot at the same time?
Pushing back my chair, I inch closer to the bourbon less than ten…
nine…
eight feet away...
“I will strive every day to ensure that our family knows true joy, protection, and peace.”
I study the object of everyone’s attention—Sid King, my best friend—down on bended knee, proposing.
“Ours is an everlasting love forged through life’s fires. Whatever storms may come to pass, we’ll bear them together and come out stronger.”
I search Ty’s face for a sign that this isn’t what he wants. He looks shocked. At least, I think that’s shock. Hell, I could never crack him.
Draining the beer, I reach for the bourbon, and before the last of the pour can meet the bottom of the cup, it’s falling down my throat.
“I am already yours, but would you do me the honor of marrying me?”
Pour, gulp, burn…again…again…
“No, no, no.”
I search the faces of the other guests.
Oh no. He said no? That was a no, right?
My breath echoes in the air as Nicholas covers his mouth, and his eyes sink like that time in practice when I gut-checked him for elbowing me in the ribs. I scan one downcast face after another—until it meets one beaming with pride—Ms. King, Sid’s mother. I trace her gaze back to Ty, who’s lowering to his knees.
“No, because it’s I who would be honored if you’d marry me.”
Sid grins.
Holy fuck!
I blow out a breath and then add to the air of woots and whistles before tucking my head and weaving through the crowd.
I’ll down the bottle if you push it back up, I warn my stomach as my back hits the bathroom door.
Snatching off my shades, the room spins slightly as the celebration gets louder.
Last game…twenty-eight points, eleven rebounds, ten assists…
I move toward the toilet.
