He looks at Ramone, who shifts impatiently from one foot to the other.
“I’d better let you go,” Jared says, amusement in his eyes. “Remember. Call me when you’re ready.”
I try not to glare at Ramone as we take our seats just a few rows behind the Stingers’ bench. He’s just doing his job. I get it, but Caleb and I definitely have to talk about this.
Even Ramone’s overbearing presence can’t dampen my spirits. Jared Foster wants me on his team. I may be closer to independence than I thought.
August
From tip-off, I know something is wrong with Caleb. I’ve been facing him since we were bare-faced adolescents whose voices hadn’t changed yet. I’ve studied him and know his every tell and all his triggers. Something’s different. Something’s changed. He’s even more aggressive than usual, but he’s not hiding it in sly side-plays the refs and the cameras miss. He’s more blatant and less controlled than I’ve ever seen him. Almost unhinged. Sloppy. Picking apart his game isn’t even a challenge this time, and his frustration boils to the surface and over the sides quicker than usual.
Me—I’m having the game of my damn life.
Tres. Trois. Triple.
Any way you wanna say it, I’m raining threes. There’s a zone a shooter enters where the hoop feels closer and wider, like a woman spreading herself open and making it easy for you to slip in. You hear swoosh before the ball leaves your hands. It feels like you could close your eyes and make every shot—you’re that in tune with the net. That’s the zone I’m in tonight, and for some reason, the Stingers coach leaves Caleb on me when we all know he couldn’t guard me with a sword and shield. He’s never been able to, but he always insists on trying. His ego is not only his downfall, but his team’s, because remarkably, we’re up at the half. This game does matter for them. They’ll probably make the playoffs, but they’re in the wild card position. They need to win, or other teams need to lose for them to make it. And if I have anything to say about it, they ain’t winning shit tonight.
“You guys are killing ’em,” Coach Kemp says when we huddle after halftime before the third quarter starts, his eyes fixed on me. “Keep it up.”
He’s a good leader, but everyone knows his assistant coach, Ean Jagger, is the brains behind this operation. A college injury ended Jagger’s pro hopes, but he’s a basketball savant. With his dark, closely cropped hair and black-rimmed glasses, he’s got a little bit of a Clark Kent vibe going on. Around Deck’s age, he’s one of the most respected minds in the league. Every team wooed him, and I have no idea how Decker cajoled or bribed him to slum it with an expansion squad, but thank God he did.
When we break, Jagger waves me over. I join him by the bench, tucking my jersey into my shorts.
“’Sup, Jag?” I don’t have to bend because at six foot seven, he’s got an inch on me.
“I know you’re in the zone right now.” His deep timbre rumbles low under the collective hum of the waiting crowd. “And every shot is falling, but if you go cold, we’re fucked.”
“’Scuse me?” I glance at him with a frown.
“Yeah, since you’re taking every shot, you’re the only one in rhythm,” Jagger says, the calm demeanor he’s famous for unruffled. “You start missing, no one else is ready. We all know you’re a gifted athlete, August. Don’t just show off. Show us you can lead.”
He taps his clipboard for emphasis, nailing me with a look from behind his glasses.
“You’re the point guard. The floor general. Involve your teammates more,” he says. “Slow the game down so they can catch up. Open the floor. What happened to the passing we’ve been working on all season? You’ve reverted to hoarding the ball. Where’s your head, man?”
Only Jag would hone in on these issues when, from the outside, it looks like things couldn’t be better and I’m having a stellar game.
Everything he’s said is spot on. I’m playing well, but I’m the only one playing well. That’s not the kind of team we want to be, and that’s not the kind of player I want to be. I promised myself I wouldn’t let Caleb take me out of my game, and even though I look good, it’s selfish play that’s doing it. And that’s his game, not mine.
“Good looking out.” I fist-pound him and nod. “Thanks, Jag.”
“No problem.” He pushes the glasses up his nose, looks back to his clipboard and starts marking up our next play.
I’m headed toward the floor to start the second half, when I happen to look up at the jumbotron. Some cameraman has a great eye because out of all the people in this arena, he found the two most beautiful.
Iris doesn’t seem to realize the camera is on her. “Shot Caller” is emblazoned on the front of her red T-shirt, and she bounces Sarai on her knees, making animated faces to coax her into laughing. Sarai’s little hands flap, and her fingers close around her mother’s nose. I can’t hear Iris’s laugh, but even the memory of it is like warm honey pouring over me. Her laugh is husky and full-bodied and genuine—something her soul cooks up and her heart serves.
When she finally realizes the camera is on her, and she and her daughter are on the big screen, she looks embarrassed for a second but recovers. Like the perfect baller’s chick, she looks into the camera and waves Sarai’s hand. The most angelic smile lights up the little girl’s face, sparks in those violet–blue eyes.
Even with my team up, and my highest-scoring game already on the books by halftime, disappointment singes my insides. I’m about to turn away and walk on court when Iris looks right at me. Only a few rows behind the bench, she’s close enough for me to see her eyes widen, and that gorgeous, fuckable mouth falls open the littlest bit.
If I’m off my game, so is Iris. She should have looked away by now to hide this. The camera is still on her, and in seconds, someone will connect the dots between me staring up at her and her staring back at me, but neither one of us looks away. On lonely nights, drowning in pussy instead of booze, I’ve lain awake and tried to convince myself I imagined this pull between us. But this thing that connects us may as well be a neon thread, lit up for everyone to see. It’s so tangible you could pluck it. I’m tangled up in it and can’t seem to work myself free.
“West!” Kenan calls, finally jerking my attention away. “You playing or what?”
Shit.
Our starting line-up is already on the floor, and so is the Stingers’. I’m the only one not out there. I take one last look at Iris, who is now looking at her daughter and not me, before going on the court.
When I take my spot, Caleb’s eyes are slitted. He looks from me to the stands, and there is no question he noticed the long look I shared with his baby’s mama.
What-the-hell-ever.
I put the incident behind me and grab hold of Jag’s advice. Getting my team involved, spreading the floor, and slowing down the game helps me to shake off the moment with Iris that rattled my insides.
One of our players is at the free-throw line, and Caleb and I are standing beside each other, waiting for him to take his two shots.