Page 2 of Beneath the Stands (Sugarlake 2)

I look at him from where I’m leaning back on the couch. His brows are drawn in as he ponders my looming destitution, and I’m hit with gratitude for his friendship. We met when I was a freshman, at one of the many parties I used to drag Sabrina to. One look at his almond colored eyes and dark brown hair and I was a goner. I spent half the night trying to climb all six feet of him. It was the first time I’ve ever been turned down for a one-night stand.

When I walked into my Psych 101 course that Monday and saw him sitting in the back row, I plopped my happy ass next to him and demanded he apologize for making me masturbate all weekend. He laughed and told me I wasn’t his type. Turns out, he spent that night climbing a six-foot man of his own. I didn’t find that out until later, of course—once he trusted me enough to spill his soul. Or maybe he got tired of me trying to jump on his dick. Either way, he swore me to secrecy. He’s a basketball player on scholarship and terrified of the fallout if people find out he’s gay. I know what it’s like to feel trapped in expectations, so I swore my loyalty and we’ve been close ever since.

“What kinda job could I get at FCU before I even have a degree?” I scoff.

Jeremy shrugs. “They always have students as team managers on the basketball teams, and I know they get paid.”

I scrunch my nose. “Don’t you have to like basketball to do somethin’ like that?”

He chuckles. “Probably.”

“It’s not a bad idea, though,” Sabrina chimes in.

“Sounds like a shit one to me,” I mutter. “I don’t know the first thing about basketball.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Her eyes widen. “At least if you get a job on campus, you won’t have to worry about gas money. The pay probably won’t be great, but it might be enough to get by.”

I sigh, realizing I don’t really have a choice. It’s either that or finding something off campus and hoping they’ll be flexible. I begrudgingly log on to my computer and pull up my advisor’s email, asking to set up a meeting.

Having to balance work and school might suck, but it’s much better than going home.

2

Eli

I wake up in a cold sweat. It’s that damn dream again, the one I’m convinced is my subconscious coming through to haunt the hell out of me. I never remember the details, only the whisper of Ma’s voice and the look on my baby sister’s face the last time I saw her. Which was subsequently at Ma’s funeral, after she died in a car crash, three years ago.

I shake off the nightmare, glancing at my clock. Three-thirty in the morning. Not exactly what I had in mind as the “good night’s rest” before my first day. I know sleep is a lost cause, so I grab my phone off the nightstand and trudge past the white walls of my house, making my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Glancing down at my phone, I read through the missed texts from earlier tonight.

Connor: You in Florida yet? I need my wingman! This weekend, we’re going out. Pretty up that face, so I can use those blue eyes and golden hair of yours.

Connor’s messages always make me smile. We played college ball together in Ohio, and he was the only one there for me through Ma’s death, and then again when my dream slipped through my fingers. It’s luck my new job as the Assistant Coach to the Florida Coast Stingrays coincides with his contract with the Florida Suns. He’s the best damn shooting guard in the NBA.

And I’d be the best point guard if fate wasn’t such a fickle bitch.

I bat away the thought before it can take root and wrap itself around me. I try not to think on the harsh things in life. Easier to push it back and focus on the here and now.

Exiting out of Connor’s text, I pull up the one from my baby sister, Lee.

Sis: You gonna make it home for Daddy’s birthday this year?

I grimace as I close the window, tossing my phone. I wish she’d stop sending me messages like this when she already knows the answer. They don’t really need me there, anyway. I doubt Pops is in a celebratory mood—he never is these days, and I don’t know what to do with this new version of him.

My entire life he’s always been the one at my back, pushing me to go harder, dig deeper, succeed better. Hell, he’s half the reason I wanted to get out of Sugarlake in the first place. I love Pops, but the pressure he mounted on my back had me struggling for breaths every damn day. But I’d take that version over the ghost of who he is now.

After losing Ma, he changed.

When I went number one in the NBA draft, there was no one there to celebrate. When I tore my ACL two months into my rookie contract with New York, no one came to my bedside. Not my Pops. Not my sister. No one. So forgive me for not wanting to rush back to a home that harbors nothing but memories of Ma—who I didn’t spend enough time with—and the family who forgot to include me in the aftermath.

But it’s just like Lee to guilt-trip me. Growing up, she didn’t appreciate how different our folks were with her. She wasn’t pushed to her breaking point. Never forced to give up any semblance of a normal life to be the best. She has no idea what it feels like to have an entire town tout you as their superstar before you’ve even made it through high school. No clue how the shame threatens to swallow me whole anytime I think about showing my face there, now that I’m not able to play. The gash is barely healed in my heart, I’m not sure I’d survive having three-thousand folks pouring salt in the wound.

I’ll make something of myself here in Florida, though. I may not be on the court anymore, but I’ll work my way through the ranks—make a different kind of name for myself. Maybe then, the thought of facing my hometown won’t make me feel like I’m drowning.

Heading to the couch, I flip on the TV, hoping I’ll be able to fall back asleep. I ignore the way the halls of my new house mock me with their emptiness.

A couple of hours and a gallon of coffee later, I make my way to the shower. I don’t think there’s enough caffeine in the world to make me feel rested enough for the day, but luckily, the jitters in my gut make up for my brain’s lack of enthusiasm. Besides, I doubt today will be anything too intense. Preseason isn’t for a month, and the NCAA is strict on how many practices you’re allowed before the season starts. It’s not time to meet with the players, and I already know Coach Andrews. He’s the reason I got the job in the first place. It was barely an interview, to be honest. Andrews sang my praises. Told me how lucky he’d feel to have me on his staff after following my college career.

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