Page 33 of Off the Rim
Me: It's Marcus. Who the hell do you think?
Princess D-Bag: Chill, dude. I didn't know you had my number.
Me: It's listed in the directory.
Me: Practice tomorrow 8AM
Princes D-Bag: Why so early?
Me: Because I have shit to do.
Princess D-Bag: It's going to be storming all weekend. Where exactly do you think you're going to go?
I don't answer him, because the truth is I don't have anywhere to go or anything to do. I just want to get this over with. While the prospect of spending eight hours alone with Ashton makes my stomach hurt, I'll do what needs to be done so we can just be teammates. A day on the court will keep us busy enough that we hopefully don't have to talk too much. I've got some contactsfor the community service that will hopefully get back to me by tomorrow, and then I'll be done with him outside of practice and games. I can play nice and put our shit behind us enough to focus on the game.
"You're late!" Ashton calls across the court as I walk in the next morning.
"It's literally eight-oh-one, and I've been here. I had to dry off." I'm soaked from the rain, because my only umbrella is in my car. I plan to make a run to the back of the student parking lot later to get it.
"Excuses, excuses."
"I didn't expect you to be so chipper this morning," I say, accepting the ball he passes my way.
Ashton shrugs. "Might as well make the best of it."
Without any further discussion, we seamlessly turn our team drills into a two-man practice routine, passing back and forth as we run rim to rim. It's during shooting drills that competition flares between us, when Ashton's tall reach makes a game out of batting away my free-throw drills. From there, our structured practice devolves into playing around. Despite knowing I should be annoyed by the way Ashton keeps fouling me on purpose, I find myself almost having fun. Our play becomes more and more aggressive, sweat dripping off us both as we push each other to our limits, until we're actually trying to trip each other as we weave around the court to score.
During one such maneuver, Ashton feints to the left. I've watched him play enough to know his usual tactics, and I go right. I duck under his arms to attempt to steal the ball, but we end up slamming into each other instead. My hands are gripingthe ball over my head as my body turns to the side. Ashton's shoulder pushes up under my armpit, his head smacking into my nose as we tumble to the floor. Ashton's big body lands on top of mine, forcing the air from my lungs. I cough and taste copper.
"Fuck. I'm sorry," Ashton says, laughing. Now that I can breathe again, I'm laughing, too.
I'm suddenly aware of the weight of Ashton's body pressing me into the floor, and my traitorous cock twitches.Please don't let him feel that. If the widening of his eyes is any indication, I have no such luck. His gaze moves to mine, but he's quickly distracted, the growing smirk morphing into a frown as he scrambles up. Then he's looming over me, looking down at my face with concern.
"Shit. You're bleeding." His hand moves to cup my cheek, turning my face to the side to inspect it.
I'm lost for a moment, watching his deep brown eyes darken with concern. My hand comes up to his wrist, meaning to push him away, but my fingers only wrap around his wrist.
That's how Coach Weston finds us when he walks in.
"Everything alright in here?"
Ashton and I scramble away from each other and sit up. As soon as I'm vertical, blood gushes from my nose. Weston is at my side with a towel in an instant.
"Dude, I'm sorry?—”
"It was an accident," I say nasally, looking up at Coach Weston over the towel. "We fell."
He looks at Ashton's bruised face, then lifts an eyebrow. "Coach Burke said you two had some stuff to work through. I'm not going to get in the middle of it unless I have to." He pulls the towel away. "Looks like the bleeding stopped already. Do me a favor and clean up this mess?" He says, looking at the smears of blood and sweat on the polished court floor. "We've got a skeleton crew during the break, and I don't want it looking like a homicide occurred on my watch."
"I got it," Ashton offers, standing to go find a mop.
Coach Weston helps me to my feet. "You sure everything's alright here?"
"Yeah, all good. I promise."
"Look, Marcus. You're a good kid, and a damn good player. You and I come from similar backgrounds—single parent, public schools, working for everything we've got. I was never good enough to make it big like you. It was a struggle to get to where I am today, and admittedly half of my success is due to marrying above my station and utilizing the networking opportunities that came along with that. Short of getting a sugar daddy, you're going to have to keep your head down and bust your ass to get to where you deserve to be. But I think you have what it takes to make it." Weston looks over his shoulder, then drops his voice when it sounds like Ashton is making his way down the hallway. "Be careful who you trust. Some people can't handle competition, especially when they feel threatened by the success of others."
He gives me a meaningful look and pats me on the shoulder before heading to his office.
