Page 39 of Scoring the Player
We light Charlotte up.
Well, for the first three quarters. They fought back in the fourth. We got a steal on the last possession. Onyx yeeted it to me. We needed at least two points to win. Though wide open, I didn’t trust the shot, so I lobbed it to Cillian who, tangled up by their center and small forward, was already gesturing for me to shoot.
Sorry, partna.
He got free and launched the ball seconds shy of the game buzzer. A whistle was called. Juiced with too much backspin, the ball smacked the inside of the rim, and bounced out. Their crowd got hulked, then went zombie when the ref made good on the whistle. Their small forward shoved Nikola, which meant Nikola got to the free-throw line, where he copped us uno, dos buckets.
We won.
The crowd booed.
Coach ate us alive. “Sloppy dubs don’t win rings.”
And now I’m staring at the room of reporters, glued to my seat with dread.
“Did you bake a cake for Arnaz?” one of them asks.
“Next question.” I cross my arms.
“Do you have a response to Darius and To?—”
“I don’t respond to critics,” I grit out, cutting them off. “Next question.”
Those fuckers.
My jaw tightens.
They’re on the blatant end of the spectrum when it comes to homophobia, and they’re not alone. After six-plus seasons in the league, you learn to hear the snake’s rattle when fielding questions. An interviewer last week had Cat immediately expanding my interview restrictions clause after they asked inane questions like:
“Do you find it difficult being in the locker room?”
“Are you concerned that the latest media attention will distract your teammates from the game?”
“Was it harder for you to compete as an athlete?”
“Do you find it burdensome to represent all gay players in sports?”
“Do you regret coming out?”
And then there’s this crap I started but can’t finish. “Are you and Arnaz Cade dating?” a reporter asks.
“No.” I straighten up in my chair. “Y’all got questions about basketball?”
Cillian’s knee knocks against mine before he leans into the mic. “I’ll take the rest of the questions.”
“Good lookin’,” I grunt, pushing to my feet.
I’m intercepted by Meghan, our assistant manager, on the way to the locker room. “What do you want me to do with this, boss?” She holds up a gift basket. It’s like the seventh one this week.
“Send it back.”
Just like the others.
I pickup my dog sitter’s fallen textbook, then tap gently on his shoulder until he stirs awake.
His eyes blink open. “You’re back.”
“How was he?” I ask, rubbing Simba’s belly.
