by Sierra Hill
It's nine a.m. Saturday morning and the team is arriving down in the hotel lobby to catch our bus over to the arena. We’re scheduled to play number two, Gonzaga, tonight. We’d just beaten the Huskies at Thursday night’s game and barely squeaked out a win. As a single elimination tourney, we’re now bracketed against the Zags. One of the toughest teams in the Pac-12.
All our sights are set on winning this Regional game, so we can move on to the Sweet 16. If we do, we’ll play next weekend in Houston. If we don’t, this will be my last college game of my career. Come May, I’ll be graduating from ASU and then entering the NBA draft in June.
Everything is looking up and I’m exactly where I wanted to be in life right now. On the precipice of greatness.
I make my way down the narrow aisle of the bus and take a seat next to Lance Britton, my roommate and one of my best friends. He has his Beats earphones on and his phone in his hand.
I intentionally bump his shoulder when I plop down on the seat next to him. He looks up and glares.
“Mm. Someone didn’t eat their Wheaties today, huh dude?” I snicker, knowing that I’ll get under his skin with my annoying comment. “Either that, or that chick you were with last night didn’t finish the job?”
I love giving the guys a hard time. That’s just how I roll. I talk trash on and off the court.
“Eh, fuck you, Edwards. I’m trying to get into the zone here.”
I take in Lance’s appearance. Even though he’s dressed in a suit, just like the rest of the players on the bus, he seems disheveled, like he had an all-night bender. Which may not be too far off the mark. Although we are forced to tone down our drinking during the season, we did party the previous night in celebration of our win against UW.
I left the party around eleven, with a chick in tow, who was eager and ready to get it on. But I lost track of Lance, and don’t know where he ended up. He’s a great guy – loved by all – one of my best friends. But he has some demons lurking in his soul. Dark ones, that even as his best friend, I still don’t know about.
For the last year, it’s become more and more noticeable. His regular drinking. Blackouts. Erratic behavior. Sullen attitude. Constant highs and crashing lows. Whatever his problems, they seem to be eating away at his psyche.
Maybe that’s true for all of us. I don’t know. Maybe I should have gone into psychology instead of business. And maybe it’s time for an intervention. But not today.
Today we are going to fucking stomp on our competitors and I’m not going to let Lance get away with being in a pissy mood.
“And what zone is that, exactly? The Danger Zone? The Twilight Zone? The Eastern Time Zone? cause seriously dude, you look like death warmed over. What’s your deal?”
Lance turns his head away to gaze out the window, like he’s suddenly interested in what’s happening out on the street, but he’s really just avoiding my direct question.
I’ve apparently hit the mark. He does look like shit. Dark circles under his eyes. His skin tone has taken on an ashy-gray hue. And his eyes, which are usually bright and full of mischief, now seem dull and lackluster.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” he mumbles unconvincingly.
“Sure, dude. If that’s how you wanna play it, that’s cool. But if you need to talk to someone, you know I’m here for you, bruh. And so is Coach. You just have to say the word.”
As the captain of the team this year, it’s been my responsibility to deliver frequent pep talks to other players. One guy came to me about his pregnant girl-on-the-side, asking for my advice on what to do and if he should tell his actual girlfriend. Fuck, what kind of advice was I supposed to give on that topic? I also counseled a red-shirted freshman on overcoming the nerves and stage fright when playing in front of thousands of fans and TV viewers.
Although I’m normally a sarcastic ball-puncher, I’ve taken my team captaincy seriously because I care about my team. I only wish I could take some of my own advice.
I may look like I have it all together – and for the most part I do – but there are some secrets that no one else knows about. Memories I’ve kept buried deep beneath the surface – that have left an indelible impression on me. Experiences that shaped who I am and who I’ve become.
The team bus rolls to a stop in front of the stadium and I lean over Lance’s shoulder to get a closer look at all the fans waiting our arrival. A lot of young boys and their dads, hoping for an autograph from their favorite NCAA player. And throngs of college girls looking for a lot more than an autograph from a ball player.
We have affectionately named these girls hoops hunnies, because they love their players and are sweet as fucking honey.
I give Lance a nudge, stabbing my finger toward two leggy chicks standing outside the bus holding handmade signs for us to see.
One says, “I BOUNCE FOR BRITTON”, while the other reads, “I COME CAME FOR CARVER.”
Not too difficult to read the sexual innuendo there. These girls are DTF.
“Check it out, bruh. No matter what happens tonight on the court, we are both getting laid.” I give them a wave out the window and see them both giggle and flaunt their bodies. Lance snickers as we stand to grab our gym bags from overhead, heading off the bus and into the arena.
The excitement over travelling for away games hasn’t grown old. I love being on the road and can’t wait for my chance as an NBA player. Although the draft isn’t until June, I’ve had my fair share of informal discussions with scouts from the pro teams. Since I’ve already declared my intentions, my agent has assured me I have a spot on one of the best teams. I’d love to play on one of the coasts – either East or West - but life doesn’t always give you what you want. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
As we’re getting settled in the locker room, Coach Welby enters and stands in the center of the team. The room goes silent as all sixteen of the squad cop a squat on a bench or stand in formation, all eyes on him.
“All right men, tonight’s the night. You’ve worked your asses off this season, overcoming your share of obstacles and losses. You deserve to be here. This is your moment, and I expect nothing less than giving everything you got out there.”
We all know the obstacles he’s referring to include Cade Griffin’s suspension at the beginning of the season, and losing one of our junior starters to a drug-related offense. It was a tough way to start the year, but it didn’t stop our team from pulling together to find a rhythm, making us strong contenders.
Coach continues, “I want to thank you all for delivering strong performances this season. For pushing farther than you thought possible. Some of you will be leaving us soon. You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished on this team, for yourselves, your families, your classmates. Your school and fans. I’m proud of all of you. As you know, in less than six hours, we will be taking on Gonzaga. But before we do, we’re obligated to meet with members of the media to discuss our game day prep. I’m going to hand it over to Jacqueline to walk you through the rules once again on how to handle yourself appropriately and maturely out there.”
This gains widespread snickers and grunts from the guys. Dealing with the sports media is part of the process when you play ball. Aside from a few times when they asked stupid questions and deserved to get respective stupid answers, I don’t mind being on camera. As my Media Relations and Communications professor, Lori, once told me, “the camera loves my natural charm”.
Ironically, she’d said that to me right after we’d recorded our fuck session together.
Yep, I slept with one of my professors. What can I say? I have a healthy sexual appetite and I’m not about to say no to an offer to sleep with a hot female professor. I’m a twenty-two-year-old captain of my college basketball team and virility oozes from my pores.
It’s the reason I’ve never locked myself down to just one girl. I’d done that once before and have the scars to prove it. I’d given her my heart, my fidelity and my soul – and she fucked me over. Without so much a
s a goodbye.
So, fuck that shit. I’ll take the hoops hunnies in constant supply over a girlfriend anytime. I’ll continue to accept and enjoy the perks that my position as a player affords me. I’ll ride this train right through graduation, and then into my professional career.
It doesn’t get any better than this.
My eyes scan the room to watch the faces of my teammates as Jacqueline give her spiel. I’m going to miss these guys. I see Cade Griffin, my other friend and roommate. He’s come through some turbulent times but has landed on his feet – dodging a nasty bullet with some legal trouble he recently experienced. Things have settled down for him, now that he’s in love with his girl, Ainsley. He won’t be following me into the draft because he plans on becoming an engineer after graduation. He’s even talked about proposing to Ainsley.
Then there’s Van Gerard, one of our power forwards who stands erect at six-foot-six, his long hair pulled back into a neat man-bun. We’ve had our challenges recently, mostly due to his secret crush on Kylah Griffin, Cade’s younger sister. Van and I have had it out a few times this season, mainly because he’s been playing like a thug, which is not okay on my team. But also, because I’m hella protective of Kylah. She’s like my own little sister and I don’t want to see her getting hurt.
I’m lost in thought when Christian Lancaster thumps me on the back, jarring me back to the present.
“Yo, everything okay there, Cap?”
Christian’s a decent guy, if not dumber than a box of rocks. But he’s our center and stands the tallest of all of us, nearly six-eleven. He gives us the defense we need against tough teams like Gonzaga.
I shake my head free of the cobwebs. “Yeah, thanks man. All good here. Just thinking about the strategy for tonight’s game.”
“I hear ya. I think we have a fucking damn good shot, man. We just need to keep the eye on the prize and play good ball. ’Cause there ain’t no ‘I’ in losing.”
My jaw drops as I laugh loudly, my head falling back to look up at him. Like I said, dumb as a box of rocks.
“Uh, I think you mean ‘there ain’t no ‘I’ in team’. Because there is an ‘I’ in losing.”
Christian gives a deep resounding guffaw and quirks an eyebrow, patting my shoulder like I’m the idiot. “Yeah, sure, C. Whatever.”
I watch him walk off, shaking my head at his lumbering idiocy, and know right then and there that he’ll be a fifth-year senior.
****
The eruption of loud cheers and fan excitement has my adrenaline pumping as we run out onto the court to take our spots on the sideline seats. It’s like no other drug in the world – the sounds of the crowd roaring to a deafening decibel. It’s my addiction of choice. I never want to give this up.
The announcer calls out our starting line-up as the arena lights go off, the spotlight waving over us as our names are called individually.
“Starting tonight, from the Arizona Sun Devils, at forward, a six-six senior from Tucson, Arizona, number five, Donovan Gerard.”
The strobe lights flicker, the fans go wild, and I watch from my seat, my knees bouncing with anticipation, as Van walks through the tunnel of team players on each side of him, slapping hands and bumping fists as he steps onto the court.
The next three starters are announced, including Lance, Cade and Scott Wagner. And then the lights dim a fraction of an inch more, and the crowd suddenly grows unnervingly quiet.
“And now, at guard, a six-three senior captain from Mercer Island, Washington, number sixteen, Carver Edwards Jr.”
I jump from my chair and whip off my warm-up pants, tossing them to the floor and head out to join my teammates. The thirty-five thousand fans are cheering and screaming, chanting my name like I’m a rock star. I’m not immune to the accolades and fan worship, giving myself a fleeting moment to feed off the love and vibes coming from the stands.
I make my way into center court, where my boys stand waiting for me, and we raise our arms up to form a teepee structure, our team chant slowly growing louder.
“Let’s go. Let’s show. Let’s roll.” We repeat three times in unison until we break with a final shout.
The chant and team comradery has me a bit emotional, knowing this could be the last time we all say it together. All of us are seniors, except Wagner, so if we are defeated tonight in this single-elimination game, we’ll be heading home with not only a loss, but the last game of our college career. Bittersweet.
We line up at mid-court, waiting anxiously for the opening tip; Van is our center/power forward and is in the middle against the Gonzaga center, the ref in between them with the ball in his hand. I’m behind Van, waiting to receive the tip.
The game begins, with Gonzaga in possession, as I take off after the Zag’s point guard, Dillon Chambers.
We play strong for the first twelve minutes, taking the lead early on and sustaining it as we continue dribbling, passing, shooting and blocking against the Zags. I’m feeling good about how the team is playing, all zeroed in on the same goal of winning so we can move to the Sweet 16 in Houston.
We set up for one of our trick plays, as I cross the mid-court line and make a quick, behind-the-back pass down the perimeter, over to where Wagner catches the ball and takes a three-point shot, a hook from the corner. He sinks it and the crowd grows wild, as the other team inbounds and we all head the opposite direction back down the court.
I guard Chambers, the offensive point guard. I follow the ball as he dishes it off to another player. It’s then that my gaze lands on the Zag’s player near the sideline, where I notice a woman taking a seat in the front row. It’s just a fleeting glimpse of long, honey blonde hair. Silky strands that are born of my memories, long held in my dreams at night.
The woman turns back to the court, brushing the hair out of her face, and our eyes connect.
This is not just any blonde-haired woman.
My gaze is locked with the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
The eyes of the only woman who owned my heart, took it and never gave it back.
The woman who single-handedly broke my heart. Who turned me off to the possibility of ever having another relationship again.
Logan Shaw.
I stare at her for less than two seconds – but it feels like two hours. I take in everything about her in one flashbulb moment.
The soft curve of her hips, the tight skinny jeans clinging snugly around shapely thighs, her legs fitted with knee-high boots. The green sweater that tapers at her waist, tugging across her perfectly palm-sized breasts, emphasizing the weight and volume a man can get lost in.
She quickly looks away, and takes her seat, clearly unaffected by my appearance. Where as I, on the other hand, am now a fucking mess.
I hear my name called and my head snaps to the left just in time to see the ball flying at me with the speed of a bullet. I catch it on reflex and begin dribbling it down the court, calling out the Zebra play. I look to the right, and fake left before passing it to Cade, who tries posting up, but the man-to-man coverage is too tight. He dishes it back to me and I see an opening. So I take it.
I fake a dish to my left, a spin on the balls of my feet as I skirt around the defender, and take a leap up for a layup, using the backboard as my accomplice. The ball goes in, scoring two points, but not before I’m elbowed hard in the face by the Zag’s beastly center.
There’s a loud crunch as the connection is made, followed by a sharp pain that explodes at the bridge of my nose. I tumble to the hardwood, sliding on my ass as the taste of copper floods my mouth. Blood flows down my chin as I try to stand. But then my vision goes blurry. The lights of the arena dim.
I wobble, my legs losing their balance and I fall backward across the boards again. My ass hits the floor behind me, one hand reaching out to catch my fall, the other instinctively covering my mouth. My eyes sting from the excruciating burn that’s ripping through my head. I glance up through watery eyes to see Cade and Lance hovering over me, their w
ild bewilderment simultaneously telling me this can’t be good.
And then everything goes black.
Chapter 3
Logan
My date with Jeff hasn’t been as bad as I had anticipated. Better than I’d expected, actually. Even though I’m still a reluctant participant, I can’t complain because he’s treated me with the utmost respect, better than any other guy in recent history.
He’s a perfect gentleman. Attentive to my needs and courteous in every way. He hasn’t even tried to touch me, except for a gentle press of his hand to guide me into the arena, which I appreciated. I don’t like it when men feel they have the right to paw me. The few guys I have dated assume that because I’m voluptuous, they have an automatic right to touch me without permission. Some scrambled Neanderthal-brain thing. See boobs. Touch boobs.
Uhga-uhga-uhga.
But Jeff has kept a respectful distance. He was even good-humored when I asked him to meet me at the office instead of picking me up at home. I didn’t want the end of the date awkwardness where he felt obliged to kiss me at my doorstep. He simply agreed with my request and bashfully handed me a bouquet of flowers when I got out of my car in the parking lot.
From there, we stopped by a bar for a drink and some appetizers before we left for the arena. We engaged in a rather interesting conversation over travel and global warming while I finished my glass of wine. By the time we finally left to head for the game, traffic around the arena was congested, getting us there and into our seats well into the first half.
I’d never been courtside at any game before. That kind of special treatment is usually reserved for the rich or famous. His college friend really did him a solid and hooked us up. We entered through a special VIP area of the arena, where there was even a hospitality room with finger foods and an open bar. I picked up a beer and some popcorn before we were led to our seats by an employee in a purple and gold jacket.
Now as we proceed to our seats, Jeff apologizes to everyone we pass for unintentionally obstructing their views. I’m almost annoyed with him by the time we get to our seats because he’s so damn polite, but I’m too excited when I see where we’re sitting.
