Page 22 of Most Valuable Players
Mario gives Clark a glare. “We don’t have beef with any of the jocks.”
A steady stream of guys I now recognize as basketball players follow in behind Joel and Z. It looks like the whole team is here . . . sans one. Maybe Wes is busy memorizing more of the statistics book. How does someone get that sort of knowledge? I consider myself bright, but he has some sort of effortless genius. Or it appears effortless anyway.
I wave to Joel and Zeke as they look out over the crowd but resist the urge to go hang out with them and ask where Wes is. Maybe he’s just late like last time. I don’t know why I’m hoping for the latter, but as I let Clark attempt to dazzle me with more conversation, my nerves start to fray a bit more each time the front door opens.
“Listen to me go on and on, tell me about you, Claire.”
His inability to even remember my name annoys me and snaps me out of my trance. “You know what? I think I’m gonna go home and study. I’m failing statistics, and I’m stressing and...well, I won’t bore you.”
I turn without waiting for his reply and curse the heels that are pinching my feet with every step. I knew I should have stuck with my guns and worn my chucks, which make much better getaway shoes.
“Wait, can I get your number?” I hear him call but hurry my pace and don’t stop until I’m a block away and it’s clear Clark has given up the chase. I laugh to myself. Did I really think a guy who couldn’t even remember my name was going to follow me to get my number?
I keep walking, waiting to call a sober driver, telling myself it’s because it’s still early and it is a nice night to walk a bit, but when I arrive at the front of Wes’s house, I stop and look up at it for signs that he’s inside. The faint sound of a basketball being dribbled catches my attention, and I smile, imagining Wes inside hard at practice. Maybe it isn’t even him, he has another roommate I haven’t met, and Wes did mention that all the guys on the team hung out here. Still, I want to imagine it’s him practicing and that’s what kept him from a night out with his friends.
I take another step down the sidewalk and pull out my phone to dial the sober driver when I realize the sound I’m hearing is outside. It’s the echo of a basketball hitting pavement and not the gym floor inside. Curious, I ignore every single girl horror story thing I’ve learned about trespassing and being out alone at night and I walk toward the noise. The parking garage for the house curves around the back, and in the far corner, they have a basketball hoop set up. The rusted backboard and chain look out of place with the immaculate house. It’s funny to me that anyone would be out here playing when they have such a nice court inside.
In the darkness, I can’t make out his face, but the movements are all him. Even without the cast, I think I would be able to pick him out of a silhouette lineup of athletes.
I cross the lot, taking advantage of the view. He’s tossed his shirt on the ground and wears a pair of athletic pants that zip at the ankles but are open on the right leg around his cast. The late summer night has cooled, but sweat beads up and shines in the light the streetlights cast around him.
“Hey, Reynolds. Didn’t anyone tell you it’s Saturday night?”
He stops under the hoop, but he doesn’t stop dribbling as he stands to his full height. “Best time to be out here. Got the whole court to myself.”
“And no spectators to appreciate the view.”
“If you build it, they will come . . .”
“How’s that?”
He palms the ball and extends his arm toward me. “You’re here.”
“I’m not much of a spectator.” I close the distance between us and take the ball from him. I turn the ball over in my hands and then dribble it twice, hyper aware that he is watching me. I stop a couple of feet in front of the hoop and shoot the ball.
“Yes!” I call out when the ball rattles around the rim and goes through the net.
“Nice shot.” He catches the ball and passes it back to me. I shoot it again, but the basketball gods are fickle, and it bounces off the rim.
“Try again.”
He passes it back to me, and I take my time lining up and concentrating at the free throw line. The ball sails up, and I hold my breath until it swishes through the net. Gabby and I played one whole year of junior varsity basketball before we determined we were not cut out for competitive sports.
“Two out of three. You have a spot for me on the team?”
“Sixty-six percent would have you riding the pine.”
“What about you? You gonna be ready to play this season?”
He looks down to the cast and grimaces. “Comes off next week, but I won’t know what sort of shape I’ll be in until then.”
“What’d you do? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I don’t mind,” he says and dribbles the ball slowly. “Stress fracture. I hurt it in practice about a month back. Just came down on it wrong and that was it.”
“I broke my arm once. Missy Thomas pushed me off my bike. My cast was pink, though.”
He looks down at his black cast and then pushes his bottom lip out in a pout. “They didn’t give me that option.”
