Page 3 of Beneath the Stands (Sugarlake 2)

I’m flattered, of course, but I don’t feel the greatness seeping out of me the way he seems to think it does. I just feel like a missed opportunity. A seed that was watered to a bud, then left in the sun to fend for itself. But even though I wasn’t meant for the spotlight, some of these players will be. I’ll do everything in my power to help them blossom into the best damn baller they can be.

If I can’t live out my dream, the least I can do is help them live out theirs.

3

Becca

The meeting with my advisor doesn’t go as well as I hoped, even though I spent all morning visualizing the outcome I wanted. Sabrina tells me when you speak to the universe, the universe listens. So I closed my eyes and imagined Dr. Tooley saying there was an open position in the admissions office. Instead, he told me I’m shit out of luck. Said I’ll be lucky to find anything since the semester’s already started. My stomach sunk to the floor with every word he spoke, until I remembered what Jeremy said about the basketball managers, which is why I’m in Waycor Arena, ready to beg on my knees to work with the women’s team.

My knowledge of basketball is close to nil. The only experience I’ve ever had is courtesy of Lee’s older brother, Eli. He was known as the next big thing around Sugarlake, and always had a ball in his hands… unless he was throwing it at me. Dick.

But then he left for college and never looked back. Not even when Lee cried, begging him to come home. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him for the way he abandoned her.

A large woman walks by me in the hallway. She’s wearing a green and white tracksuit, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, a whistle hanging around her neck. Is she the coach? She stops in her tracks, turning around to face me.

“You the girl Tooley sent my way?”

“Sure am. I’m Becca. Nice to meet you.” I stand from my spot on the floor, straightening my tank top before grasping her hand in a firm shake.

She waves her arm. “Come on, let’s see what we can find for you.”

I follow into her office and sit down. There’re mounds of paper all over her desk, and I wonder how she finds anything in the mess.

I hope she doesn’t want me to sort through all that.

She sighs, the chair creaking as she leans back, steepling her fingers. “I’ll be honest, Becca. I know you’re here looking for some type of team management position, but all the spots have already been filled.”

My stomach sinks, matching the droop of my face. “Oh. Okay, I understand.”

Her lips turn down in the corner and she eyes the curls on my head down to the heels on my feet.

“Do you know anything about basketball?”

I cringe. “Not really.”

“Why’d you want to work with the team, then?”

“Honestly, I’m lookin’ for a job on campus so I don’t have to spend all my paycheck on gas money, and beg someone to work around my schedule.” I lock my gaze on hers. “I just need my foot in the door... to be given a chance.”

I’m feeling like I just made a mistake in admitting that, but after a few moments of tense silence, she surprises me. “You know what? Let me make a call to Coach Andrews. He usually waits until the start of the season to bring on students, so he may have something for you. It’s a little unorthodox, because you’re female, but there’s no rule against it.” She shrugs.

I perk up in my seat, my knee bouncing as I watch her pick up the phone. While she talks, I think about how I didn’t even realize basketball had a season, let alone that it hadn’t started yet.

What the hell am I gettin’ myself into?

She hangs up, her lips stretching in a thin curve across her face. “You may be in luck. He said you could stop by on your way out. I can’t promise anything, but I hope it helps.”

My stomach knots as I walk to Coach Andrews’s office, my heels clicking on the concrete floors and echoing off the walls. This is a gigantic building, but there’s no way to miss when you enter the men’s part of the arena. Where the women’s was modest and small, tucked away in a back corner, the men’s is damn near ostentatious. Rows of trophy filled cases line the halls, jerseys hanging proud above them. There are a few offices with their doors open, showcasing the floor-to-ceiling windows that look to the outside. Clearly, men’s basketball is where the money is.

I find Coach Andrews’s office and knock.

“Come in,” a gruff voice says.

The office itself, while extremely large, isn’t too fancy. It has a conference table with a projection screen at the head, and Coach Andrews’s desk sits on the other side of the room. He’s behind it, glasses on top of his buzzed brown hair, hunching over a stack of papers.

He snaps his head up when I take a seat.

“You Becca?”

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