I walk through the tunnel after game two, on my way to the locker room after doing a post-game TV interview on the court. I’m talking to our trainer, who’s walking alongside on my right, when someone grabs my left arm and I hear a woman’s voice say, “Hey, hold up a minute.” I turn and find myself face-to-face with Lexi Snow.
“Got a minute to talk?” she asks.
Her sunglasses are gone and this time I’m sure she’s addressing me. Lexi is taller in person than I thought she’d be, maybe five-six or so. Tonight, she has a fringed black leather jacket draped over her forearm and black jeans with silver and red cowboy boots. Her light gray tank top is held up by spaghetti straps and the material is so thin that I can see her nipples poking at it in the cold air of the tunnel.
“Sure,” I say. “I saw you in the stands during game one.” I notice a large brother standing a few feet away and assume he’s her security.
“Yeah, I waved at you but you wanted nothing to do with it.”
I laugh. “Nah, I just couldn’t tell who you were waving at with those shades on.”
We talk for a few minutes and she mentions that she saw me on Kimmel’s show and wanted to say hi and introduce herself when I came to her hometown.
“You still live here?” I ask.
“I have homes here and in New York,” she says. “I don’t need one in LA because some of my music friends have houses there that they rarely use, so I just crash where I can.”
As she’s talking, I sneak another glance at her chest and see the faint outlines of her areolae and I suddenly remember the pictures I saw of her a few years back. A photographer for whom she’d done some topless modeling at age nineteen had decided to make a buck by selling them to a tabloid. In college I had stared at those pictures and wondered what it must be like to be with a woman like that. Now she’s right here in front of me, obviously interested—just after I’ve started seeing someone, of course. Strange how shit works out sometime.
Lexi asks if I have time to grab a drink or two with her, but I turn her down because the team bus is heading straight for the airport in about an hour, and I still need to shower and get dressed.
“Maybe I’ll see you in LA, then,” she says.
“Yeah, we can have a drink or two there.”
She tiptoes up to kiss me on the cheek, then walks away, accompanied by her security guy.
I take it for granted that I’ll probably never see Lexi again after tonight. Celebrities make a lot of promises about getting together that seem to evaporate as soon as they’re uttered. Still, it was cool meeting someone in person who I’ve fantasized about so much over the years. That she treated me as an equal blows my mind.
En route to the airport on the team bus, I call Rashida. We talk for the entire forty-minute bus ride and by the time I board the plane I’ve forgotten all about Lexi Snow and am thinking about the amazing sex that took place in Rashida’s bed. And in her kitchen.
For the first two games, I continued to try to play hard on both side of the ball, sacrificing some energy on offense to play harder on defense. After a practice between games two and three, I talk to Coach Madden about what strategy he thinks is best, and he seems surprised that I’m even asking him. He tells me to keep doing what I’m doing and let’s see what happens now that we’re on our home court.
Every celebrity in Hollywood seems to be in the stands for game three at the Staples Center. It’s the first time the Lakers have been in the playoffs since before I joined the team. Also in the stands are Drake and Allie, Mason and Claire, and Link, who’s flying solo tonight. Just as importantly, I managed to get two seats a few rows behind our bench for Rashida and Jayden. Rashida looks radiant in her brand-new Lakers jersey. Jayden was gracious enough to allow his mom to also wear my number, along with a couple thousand others here in the arena. They arrived very early and I brought Jayden down on the floor where he tried to dribble a ball with Demarius for a few minutes before rejoining his mom in the stands. A couple of the guys gave me shit and asked who the new girl was, but I just ignored them.
The media frenzy is absolutely nuts, and it seemed like I was doing interviews every ten minutes since the team got back to LA. Consequently, I’m relieved when we get closer to game time and I can hole up in the locker room and get some peace and quiet. We’re determined to get this done tonight, to win a game and position ourselves to win another here two nights from now to tie the series.
Just before tipoff, I happen to spot Lexi Snow in the stands. She smiles at me, but I’ve already got my game face on. I’m certain that on our home court, with our fans here, my teammates and I will get this done.
Only we don’t.
We lose a tough one on a last-second tip-in after we’d led for almost the entire game. Watching that ball bounce around the rim before finally dropping through was heart-stopping, and the Lakers leave the court downcast and disheartened. When I enter the locker room to see all the dejected faces, I know I have to do something. I stand in the center of the circular room, lockers lining the walls.
“Hey!” I shout at the top of my lungs.
Everyone turns to see who’s shouting. When they discover it’s me, they know something must be up. In my five years here, I’ve never once addressed the team in the locker room. The place quickly grows silent and everyone’s eyes are on me.
“What the fuck you guys all down about?” I bellow. “We kicked their ass tonight!”
Considering the outcome of the game, there’s an expected disconnect.
“We won that game,” I tell them. “We beat them down for forty-seven and half minutes, and they got lucky at the end. They know it was luck, and they know we outplayed them. These guys were in the finals last year, and a team that barely made the playoffs showed them up tonight. Made them look bad on national TV.”
Now I’m getting a few shouts of agreement.
“They know that, and they’re scared about what’s going to happen in game four. They’re gonna be tense and trying hard just not to lose. Meanwhile, we’re going to take care of business this time so a lucky motherfucking last-second shot won’t save them.”
Everyone is pumped now, so I hammer it home.
“So, let’s go home, get some sleep, and everybody wake up knowing that we are the better team.”
I see Coach Madden leaning against the wall, smiling knowingly.
At this point, I think I’ve even convinced myself that we can do this.
22
Rashida
Yvette steps into my office this morning bright and early.
“Did you watch the game?”
I’ve been dragging my feet about telling her that Marcus and I are sleeping together. I don’t want to upset her since I know she had a crush on him, but also because I’m not sure exactly what kind of a relationship I have with him. Or even if it really is a relationship at all, for that matter. All I know is we had great sex a couple of times, we talk and text a lot, and we seem to like each other quite a bit.
I guess it’s time to break the news, though.
“Jayden and I were at the game. Marcus got us tickets.”
Yvette’s eyes widen.
“Really,” she says, drawing out both syllables. “And why would he do that? Have you been holding out on me, Rashida?”
My embarrassed smile tells her that I have.
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know how to tell you. He and I have been seeing each other.”
She’s obviously surprised. I guess there are no feelings of jealousy, because she grins.
“Tell me! Last I heard he stood you up and you never wanted to hear from him again.”
“Marcus stood me up because his father passed away that morning.” Yvette’s mouth hangs open. “He forgot everything else and left immediately for Oakland. When he got back, he called to apologize and I invited him over for dinner.”
“Poor guy. How did the dinner go?”
There’s no way around it. She’s too good a friend to
not confide in.
“It was lovely—then we slept together.”
Yvette is stunned. “Oh, my god. Seriously?”
“Yes. Twice now, that night and again two days later at his place.”
“Are more in the future?” she asks. “More dates, I mean—not just sex.”
“I’m pretty sure. He’s been too busy the last couple of weeks because of the playoffs. But we talk every night, and he texts me out of the blue sometimes to ask what I’m doing.” Then I smile and add, “Or what I’m wearing.”
She thinks about that for a second, then her grin reappears, this time with a hint of dirtiness.
“So…”
I wait, but she stops there. When I don’t reply, she makes a frustrated face.
“Rashida,” she says, again drawing out the syllables. “How was it?”
“The sex?”
“Of course, the sex! Was it amazing?”
I blush hard. “Amazing doesn’t really do it justice.”
“I’m so happy for you,” she squeals. “Tell me about it. Everything.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to share the details. “Let’s just say it’s the best sex I’ve ever had, and Marcus seemed to like it, too.” Surely that’s enough to satisfy her curiosity, or at least to get her to stop probing.
“Is his body as incredible as it looks in that picture?”
The image of Marcus’s naked torso suddenly appears in my mind. At this point, I’m blushing continuously.
“It’s perfect. I mean, literally perfect. Not an ounce of fat on that man, anywhere. He’s as hard as a rock.”
The dirty smile quickly returns. “All over?”
I frown, remembering her earlier fixation on Marcus’s cock. “You’re my friend, Yvette, but I’m not going to discuss that with you.”
“Oh, come on!”
That’s it. I must draw the line somewhere.
“No,” I say. “I am not going to describe my boyfriend’s peni— “
Oh, shit.
Yvette understands immediately what has just happened.
“Is he? Are you guys already at that point?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. It feels like it, but it’s been less than three weeks. Neither of us has talked about being exclusive.”
She gives me a somber look. “Be careful, Rashida.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Maybe you don’t, because you didn’t even know who he was a couple of months ago. I don’t mean to scare you, but Marcus has a reputation as a womanizer.”
That’s nothing I didn’t already know. But her next sentence chills me to the bone.
“Don’t forget how you two first met.”
She’s right, of course. I met Marcus just minutes after he’d had sex with two groupies. At the same time. And it wasn’t that long ago, either.
I give her an exasperated sigh. “Right now, it’s hard for me to reconcile the sweet man I’ve been seeing with the one who’s supposedly a notorious player.”
Yvette is more realistic than I am, however.
“Nobody ever said players aren’t sweet.”
Marcus gives Jayden and me tickets for game four, the same seats as two nights ago. That’s about the only similarity, though. One loss away from being eliminated from the playoffs, the Lakers play magnificently from the start. The crowd goes nuts from the first basket, a breakaway dunk by Demarius Crawford, to the final buzzer. It’s a rout, with the Lakers winning by thirty-two points. The Rockets’ coach took his starters out three minutes into the final quarter because the game was so far out of reach.
Marcus was as focused as I’ve ever seen him, locking in on the Rockets’ star Gerald Markins and holding him to eight points for the entire game. The Rockets looked absolutely inept and couldn’t seem to do anything right all game.
Houston still leads the series, three games to one, but now there’s hope. The Lakers seemed confident and this huge win will certainly bolster that.
More importantly, Jayden was out-of-his-mind happy, cheering his little butt off until he began to tire toward the end. He asks if we can go to the next game, and I tell him the next one is far away, in the Rockets’ arena.
“If they win that game, though, we will definitely come back to see the next one.”
23
Marcus
Back in Houston again for game five, there’s some kind of Gulf Coast monsoon taking place. The locals tell me it’s just a typical thunderstorm due to the unseasonably warm weather for early May, but I’ve never seen it rain so hard in my life.
I decide to head down early to the Toyota Center, the Rockets’ arena, to get in an extra hour of shooting practice. My jump shot has been off since before the playoffs started, and I need to correct that. I let Coach know, then catch an Uber to the arena. After changing into some sweats, I head for the court and find myself in a completely empty, eerily quiet arena. Every dribble of the ball echoes while I go about getting my practice reps.
Eventually, one of the Toyota Center’s IT staff comes out to work on some network cabling issues at the scorer’s table next to the court. His son is with him, a gangly young black kid who sits in the front row watching as I shoot baskets. Looks to be about ten years old. One missed shot bounces his way and he’s up in a flash to retrieve the ball and pass it back to me.
“Wanna help me?” I ask him.
He nods vigorously as he runs onto the court.
“What’s your name?”
“Russell.”
“Nice to meet you, Russell. I’m Marcus.” He shakes my hand.
“Is that your dad?”
“Yeah.”
I look over and see that the man has noticed his son is on the court. He looks concerned and starts to say something, probably to tell the kid not to pester me, but I smile and wave him off.
“What grade are you in?” I ask.
“Fourth.”
“The Rockets your favorite team?”
He nods.
“Uh oh. I play for the Lakers. You still wanna help?”
His response kills me. The kid takes a second to mull it over, then nods again. Too funny.
“Okay, here’s what I need you to do, Russell. You stand under the basket, and after I shoot, you chase down the ball and throw it back to me. Think you can handle that?”
“Yeah.” His grin seems to take up the entire width of his face, and it makes me smile, too.
He runs to his assigned spot. He’s just a few years older than Jayden, and a little shier. I’m surprised to feel the tiniest ache and realize how much I miss Jayden.
I start shooting again from all over, and Russell dutifully retrieves every shot, hit or miss, and gets the ball back to me.
Eventually, his dad walks out onto the court. He’s finished his task, and just in time because poor Russell is toast. Still grinning, though.
He introduces himself and we shake. Robert is his name, and he wishes me good luck in tonight’s game. “But not too much,” he adds with a smile. I ask him if he’s going to be able to stay and watch and he says unfortunately, no. He brings Russell to a few games a year, but just couldn’t justify the costly playoff tickets.
“Well, I owe Russell for helping me out. I’ll hook you guys up with free seats tonight. How’s that sound, Russell?”
His amazed smile as he looks from me to his father. Robert thanks me profusely for the gesture and I can tell he’s genuinely touched. I’ve already given my allotted tickets away, but the expressions on their faces are worth the couple thousand bucks these seats are going to cost me.
I tell him to pick up his tickets at the will call window, then stay on the court and resume my shooting. I notice the shots are falling now, my form slowly coming back to me. I keep going until I’ve put up a total of three hundred shots, and by the end nearly everything I throw up there is hitting nothing but net.
Back in the locker room, I grab my phone and strip down, then slide into the Whirlpool for a soak. The rest of the t
eam isn’t due for another half hour, so that gives me some time to chill. I run through my texts and see quite a few good-luck wishes, including one from Rashida.
I call her and we talk for a bit, then she says, “Hey, someone over here wants to tell you something.”
Next voice I hear is Jayden’s. “Hi. Are you gonna win tonight?”
I laugh. “That’s the plan, Jayden. We’re going to try our hardest.”
“Good. If you lose it’s still okay, because you can’t win every time. My teacher said that.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“But it would be a lot, lot better if you win.”
I talk to Jayden for another minute before Rashida pries the phone back.
“I know you’ve been busy, but I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you, Marcus.”
“I miss you, too.”
The words come out of my mouth so easily and feel so natural that it scares me.
It’s another media circus today. During the pre-game warm-ups, I see Lexi Snow walk in, taking a seat on the first row this time, close to mid-court. I stop by and say a quick hello, still amazed that I’m even talking to this woman. As the seats fill up, I notice there are quite a few yellow jerseys in the stands, Lakers fans who have come all this way to cheer their team on. We can’t let them down.
The Rockets have recovered from their beat-down in LA, however, and are ready for us. Before five minutes have passed we’re already behind by twelve points and nothing seems to be going right for us. We seem sluggish and unfocused, and try as we might, we go into the locker room at halftime down by twenty-nine, a seemingly insurmountable lead. Few teams have ever rallied from such a deficit, and never in the playoffs. Everyone’s head is down, and Coach Madden’s motivational speech doesn’t seem to help much.
As the team returns to the court, Coach stops me for a word.
“Listen, Marcus, right now, these guys don’t believe they have a chance. We need a spark, something to give them hope.”
I know he’s right, but I’m surprised by his second-half game plan.
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 3: Marcus Page 15
