Page 2 of Scoring the Player
Coach ignores him and barks at our power forward to cover the wing.
“C’mon, Coach. He looks like cheese that’s been out too long.”
“What’ya call me?”
“Cade.”
“NotCade,” I mock Coach. “Jones. AllJones.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Asshole asks. “His jumper broke?”
Myjump shot?“Fuck you. Go find out why your point guard’s aiming for a triple zero.”
“Enough,” Coach warns me.
“And you.” I glare at him. “In case you missed it, that was Andrews’s third air ball. You might want to, I don’t know, give a damn about our twenty-point deficit and eight-game losing streak and put me in the game.”
Coach stiffens, eyes shifting to icy slits.
The air stills like my bench mates and our assistant coaches—even the two randos at the end—are clenching their cheeks.
I shrug.Where’s the lie?
“Mm-mm-mm.” Asshole palms his chest. “Famous daddy ain’t teach him manners.”
“Fuck you say?” I fly out of my seat. “Say it again,” I grit out, squaring up.
Black orbs swallow brown, except there at the edges, cutting like lightning, a bloodthirsty glint.
A serpent slithers awake in my belly, forked tongue tasting the air.
Oh, how we feast when we’re mistaken for prey.
The bow of his top lip puckers.
A low-bellied hiss tempts me to sink my teeth in. Or latch on to his gold nose ring.
“Huh.” His head tilts as his gaze trails down my body. “Thought we had a mouse in the house.”
“Say. It. Again,” I grit out, ignoring the weak jab. At six-foot-six, he only has two or three inches on me, max.
“Jones, knock it off,” his coach yells from their side of the court.
“He ain’t wrong,” Asshole throws over my shoulder. “Andrews couldn’t cop a bucket if you bought it for him.”
“Nah.” I close in. “Ican say that shit.Youcan’t.”
“Just sayin’”—he steps back, raising his hands—“he ain’t no sixth man.”
I start to turn away...
“Forgive him, Coach,” the fucker taunts. “Silver spoons scratch easily.”
…but Christmas comes early this year.
He bobs to evade my first swing and the second. I fake a left hook, and my right crashes into his jaw. His head snaps quickly, then slowly, like it’ll keep turning—until it skids to a stop.
A dark rumble, too skin-dancing to call a chuckle, crawls out of his lips.
