Page 63 of Scoring the Player
The fridge’s stocked with a bunch of healthy to-go meals and green shit, and the sink’s cleared.
Before I die, I need to erect a park statue or bench in his honor.
I geta Brooklyn Lions app notification that a game started a few minutes ago. I grab the remote and turn it on. It takes me half a breath to spot him amongst the light blue and gold jerseys. He’s held back by Cillian while arguing with a ref. They run a replay. Salem gets caught in a screen before shaking loose, then chases the point guard to the rim, shadows him step for step, leans in at full extension, and slaps the ball off the backboard.
The ref calls a foul.
Wait, what?I sit up.Shit call. That block was clean.
Even Kevin, one of the OG commentators, seems to agree with me. The Lions’ coach should challenge it.
The camera zooms in on Salem’s narrowed eyes, creased forehead, and distant stare from the sidelines as the opposing point guard misses the second free throw shot.
I gnaw on my nails to kill the army of ants swarming my blood in the spot where those smirking lips kissed my neck.
I ran from him, and even though I’m not surprised, I’m embarrassed. For a few minutes that night, I feltnormal.
Better than normal—it’s like I was a different person who liked after-sex cuddles and pillow talk. Then he touched my scar, and reality came crashing in.
He runs another block against the same flopper and drills the ref with a glare. Ignoring my semi, I lie back on the couch and watch the game for a minute before I fade to sleep.
It’s exactlyhow it was, except everything is different. Salem’s hand covers both of mine, locking them in place above my head…
The metal and glass chandelier casts a dim glow over the room.
I’m writhing and moaning under the heat of his tongue as it trails down my abs.
“Please,” I beg as my fingers tug the fur throw underneath me.
The bedroom door bangs open.
Carter.
“W-wait,” I scream as the quiet click of the safety being removed rings louder than Carter’s maniacal laugh.
Salem stills.
“No!”
CHAPTER 15
SALEM
Iclick on the link in Cillian’s text.
A highlight reel from the Royals’ social media account of Blue arriving at the locker room to find gift baskets starts playing. His reaction is the same every time—tense eyes, hunched shoulders, flared nostrils.
The montage ends with a hook for viewers to tune in to the latest episode of theRoyals All-Access.
Was his reaction the same with my cake?
I click onhis profile, though I doubt there’s anything new. Eleven posts in total, and only two of him.
One is of him and his teammate Ussef, who’s donning a cape, shirtless.
The caption reads:Happy Birthday, my G.
I slide to the next photo. He’s sitting next to Sid in a navy three-piece suit. I zoom in and peep a rose pinned to his blazer’s lapel. Damn, the camera loves him.
