Word gets around. The video the kid filmed the first day winds up on the internet. Soon, a bunch of Kodiak Camp staff and alum are by the court at ten in the morning when Coach and I roll up.
It’s good to have the distraction from Nova.
Seeing her the other day at Brooke’s, sitting next to her, touching her—all of it affected me.
I had to get the hell out of there or give in to temptation.
Not to say temptation didn’t return when I was lying in bed that night.
I did what any guy trying to play it cool would do.
Listened to old voicemails and scrolled her social media until I gave up and jerked off to the only woman I ever really loved.
These past few days, I’ve started to feel human again.
It’s as if I’m thawing after a long-ass winter.
But she walked away. She tapped out.
All of it still hurts. Not in a butthurt, pride-scalded kind of way.
In a real, honest, wounded, “I couldn’t be what she needed” kind of way.
Last time, I pressured her. Maybe that was why she followed me to LA.
I’m not making the same mistake again.
The third day, we’re twenty minutes in when one of the kids is still sitting on the bench instead of playing. The camp director mentioned this kid’s had a rough time lately.
I duck out and grab my water bottle, using the drink as an excuse to stand next to him.
“You sleep?” I ask.
He blinks up at me. “Nah, I’m awake.”
“I meant do you sleep? You got that look like you don’t sleep.” His eyes are gray and tired, as if he’s far older than his years.
“I keep thinking how I abandoned my dad,” the kid says. “I’m not living with him anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s seeing someone. It was court ordered, which is why I’m in foster care.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
I rub a hand through my hair. “You know, your dad’s job is to look out for you, not the other way around.”
I hold out a hand, and he takes it, joining in the play.
I’m still thinking of that as we go back to drills.
The kids are especially lax on defense, letting me get to the rim for a dunk.
“That was lazy as…” I trail off as I hear a yipping sound. The next instant, a small, furry form is weaving between my legs at warp speed. “Waffles?”
He dances, panting happily, his wiggly body clad in a Kodiaks jersey.
“Slow your roll, Big Dub,” a familiar voice calls.
I look over to the side of the court. Rookie and Miles and Atlas. It knocks the wind out of me in a way I can’t blame on the court.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Waffles needed to take a dump. Guess he found the perfect spot.”
The dog sniffs eagerly at my shoe, and I step out of the way.
“Don’t even think about it. I’ll dunk you,” I warn him, and he whines.
“Let’s make this a real game, yeah?” Miles suggests. “Shirts and skins.”
He tugs off his T-shirt and steps onto the court, and hollers go up.
I want to remind them that’s not why I’m here, but then I feel it—the hint of fires long banked inside me.
It’s the first time I’ve felt competitive drive in months.
Miles fist-bumps me, and I drag off my T-shirt too.
“Let’s go,” I say, dribbling.
I remember my conversation with Nova while we played the video game. I pick people who’ll love playing together. The earnest simplicity of it got to me.
We go two-on-two for a bit, the kids hollering. Miles and me against Rookie and Atlas. Adrenaline pounds through my veins, competitiveness giving way to sheer enjoyment.
“Can’t take me,” I taunt Rookie.
“Watch me. I’ve learned a few things in the off-season.”
“Not all of us have been playing golf,” Atlas says.
Back and forth, up and down the court. Passing. Weaving. Blocking. Shooting.
“You have been practicing,” I say to Rookie when we all pull up and head for the side of the court, panting. “I might have to watch you play this year.”
“Because the end of last year was a shit show.” Rookie grabs two towels, tossing me one.
I scan the horizon, the hill next to the lake, the mountains in the distance. “Nova watched every game.”
Rookie’s smile fades. “No shit. Well, I’m not watching you play this year.”
“Why not?”
“Because you should come back and play with us,” Miles says.
I laugh. “You’re joking.”
But the guys only look at one another. “Nah.”
It’s an insane idea. Coming back.
“You too attached to LA?” Atlas asks.
I shake my head.
“The schemes don’t work the same without you. Kyle’s a scorer, but he doesn’t watch where the rest of us are,” Miles says, and Atlas nods.
“You space the floor. You see gaps in offense as well as the defense.”
Okay, so my ego doesn’t hate this.
“The coaching staff will come up with schemes. Harlan will fill gaps,” I tell them.
“Yeah, right. There’s only so much they can do,” Atlas says.
“Let’s play for it,” Rookie decides. “One-on-one. First to ten. We win, you come back.”
It’s insane. There’s no way to enforce it, but it’s for pride.
I shove a hand through my hair, tugging on the ends. “First to ten.”
Hollers go up from the crowd watching, and we take our positions.
The past few days, I’ve been playing around, but it’s been safe. Now, there are stakes.
We go at it. Hard.
Rookie is good, better since I saw him last, but I push back.
Basket his way.
Another mine.
Back and forth, one apiece.
I have the chance to take the winning shot. I take it, and it bounces off the rim. Rookie grabs it and takes it the other way. I’m a step slow but sprint after him, pulling up to watch as he lobs it toward the hoop…
Swish.
Not a peep from a single kid or any of my former teammates. Even Coach is quiet in his chair.
“That’s ten,” Rookie says quietly.
Reality sinks in. I lost.
There’s nothing enforceable about this. Except everyone here has it on camera, and more than the league’s rules, I have my own standards.
And that matters.
Even when nothing else does.
“I’d need a contract,” I hear myself say.
Miles nods. “You better get talking to Harlan.”
Fuck. Am I really doing this?
I guess I am.
15
NOVA
There’s nothing like the feeling of losing yourself to your passion.
Since the premiere, I’ve started a few pieces but haven’t finished anything new. I get nearly done, then can’t bring myself to complete it, as if it can’t be bad if I haven’t declared it finished.
Even though Annie said she loved the pieces, I can’t drown out the tiny voice that says I let her down in some vague way.