Page 26 of Off the Rim
I'm so tired.
Physically, mentally, emotionally.
Even my relatively easy course load has felt challenging, and the semester has barely begun.
Training camp ended with the coaches looking quite satisfied that we're ready. We've moved into regular season practice, so the team is getting more time on the court together. Coach has us doing a lot of team building drills that I think are working well. Either everyone else has been as exhausted as I am, or the coach's drills are so ingrained that they're even passing to me without thinking twice. It's made a huge difference in our speed and efficiency. Last week, Coach finally pulled me from the scout squad to try me on the starting lineup. I sort of hate that Ashton and I play so well together, but it's like we can read each other's minds. We've even been doing practice drills with five players against the two of us, and we're practically unstoppable. Playing with Ashton is actually enjoyable and has made practice something to look forward to.
Last week, Coach let a few students from the school newspaper in to watch practice and take pictures, and we ended up as campus headlines. Worse, the local news picked up on it, and we're being touted as some kind of impactful dynamic duo.
While we’ve been getting along and playing well together on the court, Ashton hasn't tried to befriend me in front of the rest of the team, nor has he bothered me much outside of practice. He still stares, his dark gaze following me around whenever we're inthe same vicinity. He's probably caught me staring at him just as many times as I've caught him. The way his eyes hold my gaze, serious and full of an emotion I can't read, then lower quickly, is doing something to my brain. I want to feel bad for snapping at him, for bringing up the past and shoving it in his face. Making him feel worse won’t fix what happened, nor will it make me feel better. I'd like to just leave it behind and call a truce, but I know I can’t trust him. For now, I'm trying to let playing nicely on the court be enough.
Media Day is coming up, and thanks to our newfound local celebrity status, both Ashton and I were invited to be interviewed. Coach is over the moon at all the attention the CVU basketball program has been getting, and has had us sitting down with the team liaison and the Assistant Commissioner of Communications for the school to do interview prep. The more they try to prep us for the interview, the more nervous I get. This will be my first televised interview outside of the Pinecrest local news, which were only quick court side questions and congratulations for games well played. This could make or break me in the public eye. As stupid as it is, the public’s opinion and love of a player is almost as important as the stats they put up. What if I fuck it up and look like a complete idiot? Or worse, get benched for making the school look bad by not being refined or professional enough. I wish we could skip it and just get to the open scrimmage against Appalachian on Friday.
"You're not slowing down, are you Vell?" That deep voice from my nightmares skitters down my spine as Ashton pulls up next to me, breaking me from my thoughts. "I'm pretty sure these are supposed to be uphill sprints, not a light jog."
"Says the guy that only just now caught up to me."
Ashton puts on a burst of speed, his ridiculously long legs pulling him ahead of my position by several feet. With a groan, I pump my legs harder, but the one benefit of being in constant competition with your hometown rival is that I feel no pain. A rush of energy and endorphins rushes through me, and I gain on him. We sprint, side by side, through the entrance to the campus. Coaches Burke and Weston are sitting in lawn chairs under a canopy with a stopwatch, but neither Ashton nor I slow down. I push harder, gaining an inch, only to have Ashton pull back ahead. We run like that, pushing ourselves to exhaustion, each gaining and then losing the lead by a mere inch, until we hit the grass. It's been rainy, and the grass is slick. Ashton slips a little and loses traction, falling right into me. He grabs me around the waist like he's tackling me, and we both hit the ground, hard. Mud splashes on impact, and for a moment we just lay there, trying to catch our breaths and process what happened.
"You fucker," I say, without any real heat. I'm actually making an effort not to laugh.
Ashton, of course, has no such tact. He snorts out a laugh through heaving breaths. I kick at him weakly, barely able to move my limbs now that we've stopped running so abruptly.
"You just had to take me down with you," I gripe, once I can get my breath enough to speak.
"It was an accident."
"Sure it was."
We lay there for a while longer, water and mud seeping in through our sweat-soaked shorts and t-shirts, until the voices of the rest of the team making it over the finish line float over to us.
"You don't need to be nervous," Ashton says quietly. "These interviews are always the same canned questions and responses about how well the team is doing and what our hopes for the season will be."
"Yeah, I'm good," I lie. I'm actually completely freaking out about it, and I'm a little pissed that Ashton can tell.
"I know you are. But if you're not, I'll be right there, and Coach will be behind us."
I'll be right there.
That shouldn't be a comfort to me. Itisn'ta comfort to me. How could it be?
I'm too exhausted to pick a fight. Instead, I force myself up, wincing at the way my shirt is suctioned to the wet ground.
Laughter cuts the silence, and I look over to see a few of the guys from the team looking our way. It's then that I notice how close we are to each other, one of my legs tucked under his and my hand on his shoulder. I jerk my hand away and push myself to my feet. At the last moment, I hold a hand out to help Ashton up.
"Yo, what's up with you and BB?"
The sound of one of my teammates talking about me makes me stop just outside the showers.
"What are you talking about?"
"Dude, you and Vell were looking awfully friendly at practice today. Seriously, nobody should have that much fun doing uphill sprints."
"Whatever, man."
"You gonna start letting him suck your dick next? Or maybe you're ready to live up to your new nickname?" There's a burst of laughter from the group, several people chiming in with their own jokes or sound effects.
Clearly, none of these guys have ever been rimmed, because that is most definitelynotwhat it sounds like. Or maybe the slurping sound is supposed to be me sucking a dick? That would probably be accurate. I do love a sloppy blowjob…
