Page 192 of Scoring the Player
I drop my heels and drag in a long breath.
By the fourth round, most of the guys have joined in.
Coach enters, and instead of kicking off his pre-game speech, he nudges Aiden and the rest of the coaching staff to join in.
“Let’s go,” he says when we’re done.
What?
“No speech?” Johan asks.
“He just got us all locked in.” Coach nods to Sid. “When your tank starts emptying, come back to this”—he pulls in a breath and releases it—“and call on your power. Alright?” He reaches his hand in. “Royals on three.”
I exitthe tunnel and spot Salem shooting a corner three with his hoodie up and headphones on.
“Where you going?” Sid asks, stepping in front of me.
“I’ll be back.” I dart sideways.
“Hold up. Peep where you are.”
I look around to find I’m surrounded by light blue and gold Lions jerseys.
We’re supposed to warm up on the side of the court that’s opposite our bench, and my foot’s an inch away from crossing onto the Lions’ warm-up side.
Shit.I step back, shaking my head. “My bad.”
Salem turns and freezes midcross over, sending the ball bouncing away. Cillian steps in front of him, breaking our stare.
Sid looks over his shoulder, catching his glare. “You good?”
“He keeps his eyes trained that way, and we’re straight,” Cillian retorts.
“Nah.” Sid’s gravelly voice hardens. “This our house.”
Cillian’s lips part in a dark grin. “We’ll see.”
“It’s gonna bethatkind of night,” I murmur.
Sid waves that off. “It’s whatever kind of night we say it is. Let’s get it.”
Itisthat kind of night.
The Lions are lighting us up like it’s the fourth quarter of game seven of the Finals. We’re down eight points with five minutes left in the second quarter.
Sid and Cillian already collected double technical fouls when Cillian tried to shove Sid into the stands after he attempted a reverse layup and got stripped of the ball. Before he could race away, Sid yanked him by his jersey and flung his ass to the floor in front of the photographers.
The crowd loved it, but if the air was thick with tension before, now it’s so heavy, we’re getting crushed under it.
Nick presses Zyair as he reads the floor for a pass. I close in on Onyx, who’s wide open and signaling for the ball.
Zyair lobs it toward him. Reading the arc—it’s too short—I kick up my speed. Onyx reads it, too, but by the time his heels lift, I’m already slipping past him, intercepting the ball.
I race toward the rim and lift off for a dunk when a light blue and gold blur hovers in front of the rim and clobbers the ball across the court.
I land, chest heaving, and wipe the sweat from my eyes, bringing the blur into focus. Salem’s glare pans the stands, like the whole arena’s on his shit list, before striding away like he’s on the hunt.
That’s the third time he’s blocked my shot. No eye contact or shit-talking. It’s like I’m invisible.
