Play The Game

by Casey Crisp

  Copyright © 2020 Casey Crisp

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9798648926356

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to Abigail Smith in honor of the high school experience that we never had during those four years together (but I'm certainly glad that we had each other).

  Fall

  Rose

  5...4...3...2...1...

  On November 21st, 1986, Michael Jordan scored the game-winning field goal for the Chicago Bulls with one second remaining on the shot clock. It was a sensational story because the New York Knicks were poised to record another victory over their greatest rival, but 1985’s NBA Rookie of the Year single-handedly rewrote the headlines. Instead of settling for the inevitable, Michael Jordan’s incredible display of athleticism completely eclipsed the defensive efforts of five of the greatest players to ever compete for the New York Knicks.

  It was a heroic narrative that everyone, in some capacity, aspired to achieve. A kind of personal history that you could impress upon others, recalling the accomplishment with pride even as time moves forward. For example, I frequently daydreamed about the coveted moment when I became solely responsible for the winning outcome that sent the audience rising to their feet in thunderous ovation. The shot clock would end with a deafening alarm, and I always took a step back, holding out my arms to welcome the admiration.

  The image was unforgettable, so it might not come as a surprise when I tell you that I had been playing basketball since I started elementary school at a very young and impressionable age. As soon as I first walked out onto the court, fingers tracing the grooves contouring the circumference of the ball between my hands, I knew that I had found something that could make me happy. It’s one of those defining moments that you could recall with fondness and whole-heartedly declare as life-changing. Because, despite everything else that might happen in your life, you always had that one certainty to reassure yourself when taking on the rest of the world.

  Subsequently, I’ve faced many challenges meant to determine who I’m supposed to be in the future. For example, even after our most recent school transfer, or my father’s absence when I was barely old enough to remember the night he left, I remained adamant that basketball would always help me when I needed it the most. Likewise, whenever I felt particularly melancholic, like the day my parents divorced, or disheartened by my circumstances, I tried to imagine myself someplace else and the recurring destination of my imagination was always a familiar basketball court. A place where I could forget about my problems when life is being unfair.

  The kind of injustice that I experienced when I started my senior year of high school at an intimidating private institution, complete with a special scholarship that was only valid as long as I continued to impress the head women's basketball coach. You see, such expectations had always followed me, even before my mother realized that her three daughters were extraordinarily talented. Subsequently, she had done her absolute best to find us the most promising opportunities, regardless of our own opinions, and that often resulted in compromising situations that neither myself nor my younger sisters truly desired.

  Even so, my sisters and I still handled the changes in different ways. For my youngest sister, Nicole, she possessed a rather extroverted personality and was quite adept at assimilating herself into new situations. Accordingly, she might be described as an optimist with far too much faith in new opportunities. Of course, there was nothing wrong with taking advantage of whatever happened to come your way, but I also believed that there was a fine line between idealism and pragmatism.

  On the other hand, Brynn was quite the introvert, finding it difficult to adjust to social situations in which she was unable to understand what others might expect of her. Instead, Brynn needed time to adjust, often disregarding the idea of making new friends altogether in exchange for the company of her sisters. She favored the familiar, she liked the idea of a routine, and Brynn would rather lock herself away in a bedroom to read classic literature if it meant avoiding novel situations.

  However, as Arlington Academy’s newest basketball recruits, we were finally allowed the privilege, or perhaps misfortune, of starting a new year with teammates who practically breathed jealousy when we were properly introduced. While our coach glorified our credentials, I realized that several of the other girls were migrating into their independent circles, whispering amongst themselves as they considered us with an attitude of clear hostility. One such candidate, who introduced herself as Sydney Black, was especially invasive. Perhaps she was concerned with the status of her position, establishing herself immediately as our team captain. “Are you familiar with your classrooms?” she asked. “I can show you.”

  Thereafter, Sydney insisted that she lead us around the school like some kind of glorified tour guide. It also seemed like she was more than inclined to fill that role, thinking that she knew best simply because she had the coveted advantage of experience. “The Senior’s building is down there,” she said, waving her hand in the general direction she indicated. “If you keep following this hallway, you’ll end up near the dining hall.”

  Brynn released a muffled sigh, and I regarded my younger sister cautiously. She had been justifiably distraught when our mother announced our transfer because Brynn managed to make quite the situation for herself at our former school. I still remembered the look of unsubstantiated frustration that settled upon Brynn’s unusually terse demeanor after our mother handed us Arlington Academy’s prestigious laminated brochure packet. It stood in clear opposition to Nicole’s reaction because she fully embraced the change of scenery, easily making new friends and finding creative ways to fit in at the top of the upper echelon.

  It was quite impressive.

  Of course, distracted by my thoughts, I was slow to realize that our unorthodox tour route had taken us by the main entrance of the school until we were assaulted by the penetrating sunlight refracting through the clear glass windows. I blinked rapidly at the sudden exposure, squinting my eyes to accommodate my adjusting pupils. The common area was mostly empty of students with the exception of four boys lingering by the doorway. “Don’t mess with them,” Sydney cautioned quietly, a dramatic shift from the flamboyant expressiveness that she had previously displayed. “They run the Student Council.”

  We passed by indifferently in spite of her warning, and the four boys looked up simultaneously to regard us with the same curious expression that I had grown to expect over the years. Yet, it didn’t make it any easier to endure, like we were some kind of laboratory experiment to study. I paused long enough to return their prodding inquisitiveness with a glare of my own, hoping that nothing more would arise from an unpleasant situation. Surprisingly, the boys considered me in return, a hint of an amused smile passing along the countenance of the tallest, before they finally looked away.

  Brynn

  In the famous words of Jane Austen, there was a universally acknowledged truth that single men were desperate to capture a girl’s heart. Tragically, in modern times, it was often accomplished in the pursuit of breaking that heart with little remorse. My youngest sister, Nicole, was the most ignorant of them all.

  “Don’t look at them,” I scolded
her, effectively snatching her attention away from the boys who, via heavily circulating rumors, were something of an unattainable treasure to my new classmates.

  “Why?” Nicole pouted. “You were looking too.”

  “I know,” I said, disgruntled because I had also fallen victim to their charms. “But I think it’s better if we ignore them.”

  Nicole stabbed a fork into her salad, and I glanced over at the boys in question. They were eating together, and they occasionally paused to speak with a classmate before resuming their conversation. They practically exuded trouble, especially the one whose dark features revealed an obvious mischievousness. He was undoubtedly the ruin of any girl who fell into his trap. Because I knew his type well. A real life Don Juan or Alec D’Urberville.

  However, after experiencing such a thought, I abruptly returned my attention back to my food when I realized that I was staring again. “The other students always talk about them. I’m just curious!” Nicole said.

  “They would only use you.”

  “What if I don’t mind being used?” Nicole shrugged. “They must be smart if they run the Student Council.”

  “But they don’t look nice!” I sighed because the thought of my sister succumbing to such unrequited interest was rightfully troubling.

  “I don’t think you should be so judgemental,” Nicole said, ever the optimist in moments that benefitted from such enthusiasm.

  “You need to promise me that you’ll be careful. There’s a lot to risk if they hurt you.”

  There was a history that we dare not touch upon at that moment and Nicole was clever enough to learn from past mistakes. “Fine,” she relented, albeit begrudgingly. “I’ll be careful for now.”

  “For now?” I repeated incredulously. “Don’t be so desperate. Look at those girls, throwing themselves at their class representatives like they’re famous celebrities or something.”

  “Apparently, they’re close enough!” Nicole grinned, earning her a hard stomp on the foot. “Hey!”

  “Keep your voice down,” I said, narrowing my eyes in her direction. “Are you trying to cause trouble?”

  “Don’t blame me!” Nicole protested. “You’re the one who made a big deal out of coming here.”

  “Because it wasn’t necessary,” I muttered, stuffing an unappetizing bite of pasta into my mouth as I did my best to ignore the lingering tension between me and my sister.

  ***

  As for the issue of being a new student at Arlington Academy, I liked to take extra precautions. “Where are they?” I wondered aloud, scrolling quickly through the online student reviews.

  I knew Arlington Academy was notorious for its academics. Writing an essay in these classes could equate to a failing grade when you’d receive a perfect score elsewhere. With such a reputation, I was meticulously careful when I made my schedule, avoiding the possibility of trapping myself in honor and AP classes. However, as an aspiring writer, I couldn’t resist the creative honors seminar. It was my only registered class that could potentially destroy my GPA and, as much as I knew that any college would accept me on a scholarship for basketball, the difference between a prestigious school and division three could be a matter of my grade point average.

  “There’s always something to worry about,” I said to myself as I hastened my walk to class alone with the company of my thoughts. Unfortunately, I found myself entranced in a rather scathing review, and I failed to keep an eye on where I was going, or who I would run into for that matter. The collision itself was jarring and my phone dropped onto the floor between myself and the quiet stranger. “That’s just great! Another crack in the screen when I still have six months on my contract...” I bemoaned, trailing off when I faintly recognized the recipient of my explosive outrage. Because this close in proximity, I realized that his eyes were a honey-brown color, undeniably brilliant.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down at my phone. “I hope it wasn’t too bad.”

  I swallowed hard, forcing my gaze away from his to scrutinize my phone screen. “It’s just a small crack. I’ve already damaged it before.” I trailed a distracted fingertip across a rather deep mark on the corner of the screen. “I’m used to it.”

  “Really?” he hummed thoughtfully. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” I confirmed, stuffing my phone into the pocket of my jacket. “I was recruited to the basketball team.”

  “Excuse my presumptions,” he said as if he had finally made the connection. “I thought Aria mentioned that she wasn’t the only new recruit this year.”

  Aria?

  “Right,” I affirmed, shifting nervously back and forth between my feet. “I’m Brynn by the way.”

  “Chrystian,” he said, holding out a hand like we were work acquaintances instead of classmates. “I’m the Secretary of the Student Council.”

  I shook his hand, looking over his shoulder instead of into his eyes. “Nice to meet you. I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

  “It is problematic,” he said, and I bristled at his teasing tone. “Take care of your phone, Brynn.”

  He took his hand from mine abruptly, leaving me frozen in a stunned complacency. Neither of us made an attempt to rectify the uncomfortable atmosphere that he had clearly engendered, and I was left standing alone in the middle of the hallway once he decided that our conversation was finished. However, it also felt like he had intentionally left things awkward, especially once he disappeared around the corner and into one of the classrooms. Ultimately, Chrystian retreated without another word, and I quickly shook myself from my stupor with an irritated sigh. It should be easy to avoid him as long as I kept my attention in front of me instead of down at my phone.

  But wasn’t I forgetting something else?

  “Locker!” I gasped, rushing along the wall of brightly painted doors, fingers brushing against the cool metal surfaces. “212,” I said, applying the code to my lock before grabbing an empty notebook from inside.

  What was next on my schedule? My writing seminar. Would I make it before the bell rang? Sure. But my time management? Well, it required immediate work. Because I felt just like Charlie Kelmeckis, the eponymous wallflower who never seemed to care much for organization. Then again, Charlie was also the epitome of social awkwardness, and I could certainly understand how that felt in most of the uncomfortable situations I encountered. “Pull yourself together,” I whispered as I approached the adjoining lecture hall, listening to the familiar murmuring of student voices from inside. I took a moment to briefly appraise my classmates, searching around the jutting wall and locating the sign-in station my class schedule had pre-warned me to expect.

  A stout, gray-haired man at the front of the classroom held up a clipboard as he asked for my name. “Braelynn Starr,” I told him, once again questioning my mother’s ignorant choice when it came to attaching a permanent identity to my person.

  “Miss Starr!” My teacher acknowledged me while grinning excitedly. “You’re one of the new basketball recruits, right?” I nodded, taken aback by his interest. “An excellent program,” he said, marking something down in his book. “You can take a seat next to Chrystian.” I froze at the mention of his name, groaning as I turned to re-assess the amassing students who were already situated in pairs at well-organized tables. Regrettably, I quickly attached the name to a familiar face sitting near the back of the room.

  “Thank you, sir,” I sighed, slowly making my way to my assigned seat.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Chrystian chuckled. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I retorted, suddenly regretting my decision to enroll in this writing class even despite my initial hesitation.

  As such, the hour advanced slowly, and I was hyper-aware of the way Chrystian took notes from next to me. His handwriting was just as alluring and dangerous as the rest of him, and I found myself unable to concentrate on the tedious lecture our teacher was giving on basic gramm
ar. You see, there was a notable elegance in the way he curled his pen around his “F’s” and “P’s” that made me self-conscious of my inferior penmanship. Such unfavorable conditions would be highly detrimental to my learning abilities. Consequently, when the bell finally rang for dismissal, I decided that it was crucial to transfer into a different seminar.

  I gathered my things together, grumbling to myself impatiently. “Braelynn,” Chrystian quietly murmured, and I peered at him from the corner of my eye. “Don’t you take notes in class?”

  “I listen,” I told him shortly, earning me a chuckle in return. “And my name is Brynn.”

  “You must be quite the talented writer, Brynn,” he said, leaning in closer to me. I stiffened when I heard his deep tenor right next to my ear. “You should show me your writing sometime.”

  Thereafter, he was gone without another glance in my direction.

  ***

  Arlington Academy’s fourth recruit wasn’t remarkable upon first glance, but her platinum-blonde hair managed to attract attention, accentuated by a single turquoise-blue hair extension. Her eyes were also a pleasant blue color, reminding me distinctly of the sky on a cloudless day. However, the rest of her appearance was glaringly out of place, especially considering the distance the others seemed to be keeping. “Girls!” Our dearest coach, the ever-delightful Miranda Sterling, announced as we waited for instructions. “This is Aria Nicolai.”

  I gazed at her curiously, remembering the undesirable Chrystian mentioning Aria’s name earlier in our decidedly unfortunate encounter. “Another transfer?”

  “It’s nice to meet everyone,” Aria said, smiling politely.

  In opposition, Miranda frowned at me with obvious irritation. “Weren’t you listening this morning, Starr? I told you during our meeting that there was another new transfer.”

  “Sorry,” I grumbled, mindlessly retreating to the rack of basketballs our freshmen players had retrieved from the backroom. I grabbed one for myself and hustled back to the gathering circle of my new teammates.