Page 27 of Game Changer

I try one more time.

Then take a breath and hit Send.

7

CLAY

“You’re late,” Miles tells Rookie as he comes in the door.

“I dropped Wade’s laundry off in the wrong place.”

Hollers echo off the aging walls as Rookie slides into the booth with a grin.

Mile High feels as close to home as anywhere. In contrast to some of the shiny new spots, this one has history. Old oak booths, faded paint, dull gold taps, and smiling faces. It’s the team’s unofficial brewery.

“Clay, can I get you another beer?” the waitress asks. The service here is already good, but she’s extra attentive to me over the other guys.

I shake my head.

Earlier this year, I loaned money to the owner, who was struggling to make rent after the landlord jacked the prices after thirty years—on the condition he kept it between us. Don’t want anyone thinking I’m a bleeding heart.

In fact, it’s easier if I have a reputation for being difficult because it keeps people from messing with me—in the game and in life.

It’s been a long day. Between practice, watching tape, and a sponsor engagement, I haven’t had a minute to relax.

But it’s getting near the season.

People have this idea athletes can eat anything they want, but the opposite is true. You want to be competitive in this league for a long time, you have to pay attention to the details.

“Why do you put up with running his errands, Rookie?” Miles tosses after the waitress departs.

“There another option?”

The other guys laugh.

It’s normal for rookies to pull some chores first year. Everyone just assumed he’d be my rookie because our games are the most similar style. Plus, I’m the biggest star, and he’s arguably the future.

Playing with me will set him up for a pro career. Rookie wants to watch me, listen to me, learn from me. Hoping some of the shine will rub off on him.

Thing is, I never signed on to be a mentor. I’ve got enough of my own shit to handle.

“You think scoring will be easy because I’m here?” I drawl.

“Hell yeah. You’ll be pulling all the defenses,” Rookie tosses back.

“Which gives you touches. But you gotta make ‘em,” I point out. “Put the work in so when the ball’s in your hands, you can do your job. And next year, if you survive that long, you won’t be the new kid. They’ll have you scouted up to here.” I lift a hand. “Then I can’t protect you.”

The first year of my rookie season, I started every game, was an all-star at twenty-one.

I got any shot I wanted, on or off the court.

More than that, I adapted. Sophomore slump is a real thing, but I worked harder on my game, my body, my head than anyone else and came out stronger.

Fast forward seven years of more or less smooth sailing—at least as much as they can be in the NBA.

I was put on this earth to play basketball, but last year, I got a rude reminder of how fragile this can all be.

I’m not about to tap out, or step back, or let anyone ruin my shot.

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