Page 97 of Scoring the Player
Talking shit all game, I waited until the fourth when we were in isolation.
Catching the ball, I hit a slow dribble. He got low in anticipation of my next move. I lunged forward, making him jump back—an overreaction, food for the serpent in my belly. I followed with a hesitation dribble that had him trembling in wait. Then I finished him, hitting a sharp crossover dribble from right to left. The fool lunged left as I escaped, pushing back, crossing the ball behind my back, then powered to the wing. I set up for a quick release, drawing him in. With too much speed, he sailed past as I sidestepped left and fired the shot.
Bang!
I raced downcourt, laughing my ass off with Sid, when a blur in the crowd had me screeching to a halt. The build of a retired NFL tight end, ink-black hair, neck tats, cold glare. I wasn’t only frozen, I was sweating bullets, and on each rapid blink, corners of the arena chipped away until I was back in my high school gym…
Carter had looked like he’d had a few drinks. It had been hard to tell from the court, but his knees had appeared to be wobbling. I’d frozen as he’d walked toward me. Was he so drunk that he’d walk directly onto the court mid-game?Why was he there?He’d never come to a game before. I couldn’t breathe. A whistle had blared in my ear, and I’d stumbled back, each step feeding power into my legs until I’d booked it.
Coach and my teammates had yelled for me.
I’d run.
I’d reached the school basement, wedged open the closet, and crashed into the dark, shutting the door behind me. I’d tripped over a bucket, stayed down, and folded myself into the corner. Weak tears had streamed down my face as I’d gasped for air.
The cringey part is that I’d later learned it wasn’t even him that day in the gym. When I’d finally crawled home way after curfew, bracing for the worst, Anaïs had told me that he and our mom had left town that morning on a media trip.
After all these years,I saw his ghost today on the court and froze. Again.
I must have looked like I was about to piss my pants because when I finally snapped out of it, everyone was staring at me. Thousands of lashing eyes.
My drink appears in front of me. “Thanks.”
The man returns with pretzels. “You’re always so blue when you come here.”
“Blue?”
He nods.
I shrug. “Didn’t know you did that.”
“What’s that?” he asks, tossing a bar towel over his shoulder.
“Talk.”
He laughs, deep and rich. “I try hard not to.”
He walks away.
Words to live by.
I raise the mug, and my hand stills as my phone lights up.
That’s Salem’s third call this week.
Take the out, man.
I’m not an expert at dating, but I’m pretty sure a crash course intro to the most dysfunctional family is the red flag you need to run free.
I resist the urge to cradle my head in my hands.
Speaking of outs, Sid saved my ass this week.
And how did I repay him? By damn near barking at him to back off when he tried to check in with me. No one knows about the shit Anaïs and I went through growing up, and I mean to keep it that way. Or meant to. But now Salem’s gotten a glimpse, and it’s been messing me up all week. Forget the foot pressed against my chest since that day. I keep thinking about climbing back into the closet in high school and staying there until…
Just until.
Still. Sid saved my ass, and I bit his head off.
