Page 20 of Off the Rim
The excruciating practice ends after several rounds of what feels like interviews with the various coaches and players, and we're sent to the showers. I make a beeline for the locker room, hoping to corner Marcus, but Coach calls me back before I can reach the door.
The raised eyebrow and crossed arms let me know just how unimpressed he is with me right now.
"Coach, before you say anything, I know I was off my game today. I'm getting the lay of the land and watching how the other players play. I promise, you'll see a vast improvement at the next practice."I promise I know how to dribble, but every time Marcus Vell gets within three feet of me, I forget how my limbs work.
Without making eye contact with me even once, Marcus made a complete fool out of me on that court today. Ilethim make a fool out of me, and I can't let it happen again. I won't. Notjust because I don't want to hear from my dad that I'm a bad investment, because, of course, his only interest in me is an asset to him and his business. But I really need to push myself if I'm going to make my senior year good enough to move me up to the next level.
Coach doesn't say a word, just stares me down for a long moment. I meet his stern gaze with confidence. I'll take accountability for my shitty performance today, and I'll make an effort to do better, but that doesn't mean I'll stand here and be scolded. If there's one thing I've learned from my father, it's how to never be intimidated.
Finally, he grunts a dismissal, and I make my way back to the locker rooms. A lot of the guys have already finished their showers and are talking about going out for dinner as a team. Most everyone is accounted for and nearly dressed, with only a few people missing, Marcus being one of them.
Pointedly averting my eyes out of respect to my new teammates, I take off my sneakers and head towards the showers. Thanks to exorbitant donations like the one my father made, the CVU athletics department has some of the finest state-of-the-art facilities and a locker room shower setup that rivals some professional teams. Rather than having one large communal shower, the CVU facilities have separate, walled-off shower rooms. Fresh towels are stocked in each stall, and they're cleaned spotless every night so there's none of the grossness of a locker room shower. It even smells like a spa, rather than a bunch of sweaty jocks.
Walking down the row of stalls, I check the lock indicators for an empty shower. Towards the end of the row, a door opens, and Marcus steps out. He's fiddling with the drawstring on a small bag. If it had been anyone else, I would have side-stepped themand kept walking, but my brain completely shorts out at the sight of him. I've never seen this much of him bare before. Every other time I've been around him, he's been in some version of athletic gear.
He's wearing nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist. His wet hair looks even darker than usual, the short curls dripping onto his muscled chest and torso. He's got a bit of a farmer's tan, and the sight of it makes my mouth feel dry. Maybe it's the light, but it seems to accentuate the curve of his biceps. He has one small tattoo on his chest, a crooked horizontal line that I don’t realize is a heart rhythm until I’m close enough to touch it. My eyes are too busy greedily absorbing the sight of him and committing it to memory to signal to my brain to stop walking, and we collide.
Marcus face plants into my chest, and my hands instinctively reach out to steady him, settling around his hips. I have the urge to hold him there, but Marcus flinches back, apologizing.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I wasn't paying atten—Oh."
I cock an eyebrow at him. "Oh?"
His face rearranges itself into that flat, unaffected expression he's worn since the initial shock of seeing me in the common room wore off. He tries to step around me, but I hook him around the waist and pull him back in front of me. His back hits the stall door.
"Can we talk?"
"No," he answers simply, trying to move around me again. He's a full head shorter than me, but he's stocky. He could easily push past me if he wanted to, but he doesn't. I'm choosing to rationalize it, deciding he wants to hear me out.
Except, what do I have to say?
I've rehearsed what I would say to him so many times in my head. My apology, my excuses. But now that I'm here, none of it feels good enough. I desperately want to pretend like none of it happened so we could start over.Everything except the kiss. I never want to pretend like that didn't happen.
I've been searching for that feeling, that spark, all this time, but haven't found it anywhere. I thought maybe it was the excitement of the moment, the chance of being caught. Then maybe I thought it was because Marcus was a boy, that it confirmed something about myself that I’d always suspected. But no matter how, where, or who I experimented with, I never experienced the same thrill I got from kissing Marcus Vell.
Was it a fluke?
Marcus' pink tongue appears between his lips, wetting them before his top lip curls into a sneer.
"Don't you fucking dare," he snarls.
"What? I'm just?—”
"I really need you to back the fuck off right now, Ashton. I'm not doing this with you. I'm not interested in whatever it is you have to say. I just want to get on with my life."
"Marcus—”
"Why are you even here? You're supposed to be showing off at Golden State."
I open my mouth to explain, but snap it shut. A small grin stretches my lips. How does he know I’ve been showing off? "You been checking up on me, tough guy?"
He scoffs. "You fucking wish." Marcus fills his lungs with a deep sigh. "Move, Ashton."
"I just want to apologize."
"For what?" The look he gives me is scathing, daring me to say the words. My tongue feels heavy.
"You know what, Marcus. Don't fucking be this way."
