Page 44 of The Older Brother
“You’re just jealous that Dad sees something in me. He sees potential that you don’t have. You’re nothing more than a familial obligation.” The cocky grin on my brother’s face almost makes me proud. He’s getting better at shit talking.
I smirk and chew at the inside of my cheek, barely holding in the low laugh as I toe the basketball to a bounce, then dribble it up into my hands.
“Jealous, huh? Interesting word.” I slap the ball with my opposite hand, then launch it into my brother’s chest. He catches it just as fast.
His brow arches.
“You wanna go?”
I sniff and nod, dropping my keys and phone on the other end of the bench.
“Yeah, let’s go. Twenty-one. You’re up top first.”
I pivot while my brother dribbles to the top of the three-point line, the other half-court game slowing while the players start to notice what’s happening over here. My brother and I were both high school stars. We’ve both been written about for our basketball talent, hype, and all that shit. I bet a lot of people simply assume I played college somewhere, and I’m sure they think that’s what Caleb’s going to do. People like to brag about having famous athletes in their community, as if somehow that makes them winners.
“Check it,” Caleb says, bouncing the ball to me. I bounce it right back and move to the balls of my feet, ready for his move. It’s always the same, and this time is no different. Caleb spins to the right, then rushes left, trying to pass me for a quick layup. I block it easily and take the ball up top while wearing the same cocky grin he tried to pull on me.
“We’re just getting started. That was lucky,” he defends.
I chuckle, then pull up for a jump shot at the top of the three-point line. I sink it without a sound, except for the claps behind me from our fans.
“Whatever. Lucky shot,” he says.
I do it again.
“More like skills,” I say.
Our battle continues, Caleb sinking a few of the breaks he takes inside, even dunking on me once, which I swear he only does for attention. I don’t take him inside a single time, andthat’s because I see his weaknesses. I always have. Caleb counts on the physicality of the game over the finesse. I’m taller. He’s thicker. He figures he’ll bump me out anytime I get close, but that means he’s leaving me all sorts of room and time to take good shots. And I drill them shot after shot, until it’s twenty-one to ten.
I predict his eventual meltdown, too, so when he drops the ball to kick it with his foot, I bump him with my body, so he misses and ends up rolling the ball through the center of the court rather than at some innocent dude’s face.
“It’s time for you to grow up, Caleb.”
I snag my keys and phone while he limps his way to his gym bag, feigning some injury that he’ll no doubt use as an excuse to the guys in this room when I leave.
“I know you think Dad can buy you the life you want, but all that money can buy you is distractions. At some point, you’re going to have to deal with the shit messing with your head. Call Mom.”
I let my gaze linger on him for a second, not bothering to hide my disgust before turning and striding toward the double doors.
“Leave Saylor out of this then. Don’t bring her into your bullshit. She deserves better,” he says, and I pause my steps but only for a second.
“You’re right about that. She deserves better than both of us. But . . .” I give myself exactly a half second to consider shutting my mouth. Nope. I’m saying it. “I’m the one she’s with now, and I like her way too much to quit.”
Chapter 14
I’d rather ridemy old banana-seat cruiser with flat tires than bother my mom for a ride while my car gets fixed. She didn’t seem to notice it wasn’t in the driveway. And she also seemed oblivious to the fact that I haven’t been around in twenty-four hours. The only thing she made sure to check off her list when she called me during her lunch today was that I, in fact, met with the dean and was filling out the application. Rather than open the debate with her over the phone, I simply said “yes.”
I lied.
I should feel bad about that, but I don’t.
Cami has been a good sport. While I would have ridden my old bike, I didn’t have to because my best friend offered to chauffeur me to my new job, then to the lake for beer and unsafe fireworks with a few of our friends tonight. She’s been sweating her ass off on the bleachers while I teach an unruly group of twelve-year-olds how to flip turn for the last hour.
“You should have brought a suit,” I holler to her from across the pool as she dips her feet in the water while sitting on one of the free towels they give away at the counter.
“Next time. How long did Rowan say it would take to get your wheels fixed?” She squints against the sun as I shrug.
“He didn’t. He said that Jersey would have to help him with part of it.” I don’t know Jersey as well. His real name is Tyler Gris, but he transferred to our high school from New Jersey when Miguel and Rowan were freshmen, and some nicknames have a way of sticking for life.
