Teardrop Shot

by Tijan

  “Are you here for the net?” I asked.

  I was aware of how he hadn’t moved since I jumped to my feet. He was still on the floor, and I got a glance in before I panicked, just quick enough to see my roll sitting on his jean’s zipper, right where a whole other type of bread was.

  Ahem.

  I made every effort to change my thoughts, because I could feel all the sexual-themed questions coming, and with my history with this guy, I did not want to take that on.

  He grunted, finally standing up. “That’s all you’re going to say to me?’”

  Well…what else was there?

  I mean, besides the fact that for all the crap I took from Keith about “dating” my guy friends, I hadn’t dated any of them. Yet, this was the one guy who actually came close to entering that zone. The dating zone.

  That’d been Grant.

  And no one knew. No one.

  They just knew he’d been my best friend for six summers in a row. They didn’t know we’d kissed on the hanging bench my last summer here, and we’d held hands on the walk to my car—right to where I had it packed with all my belongings. We drove our separate ways, and that was the end of our summer.

  Grant went north four hours to finish his last year at college, and I went south to meet Damian. Life took a turn after that—a big, fast, and dramatic turn, and sometimes I felt like I’d taken that turn so fast, my car had rolled in the ditch and I’d never woken up.

  My throat suddenly had an STD. There was burning, more burning.

  “How’s Damian?” Grant asked.

  We were going serious right off the bat.

  “If everyone started using shiitake as a curse word, would we switch things and call them shit mushrooms?”

  He snorted, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You’re exactly the same.”

  No, Grant. No, I wasn’t actually. I was very, very different inside, but it was all covered up in lame questions and stupid jokes because I couldn’t admit the truth or I would collapse. That was the real Charlie, and I clamped her down because I couldn’t even handle her myself.

  “Well…” His voice lilted with sarcasm. “I’m engaged. Do you give a shit?”

  I looked up at him now, finally. His eyes bore into me, and I swallowed.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  I rolled my eyes at myself. I wasn’t a meek and timid mouse, but that’s what was coming out. Coughing, I hit my chest with a fist and exclaimed, “I mean, yes, I do.”

  Oh, Lord.

  It came out booming now. All I had to do was throw my arm out to the side and it would be as if I was announcing the Seattle Thunder’s starting lineup.

  His lip twitched.

  That relaxed me. My lungs weren’t so shriveled up.

  “Congratulations.”

  His looked at me and lowered his head, seeming to study me. After a moment, he shook his head. “Yeah. Okay, kid. You and I can do our dance later.” He gestured around us. “Boss wanted this cleaned up and the net taken down. I’ll handle it.” He nodded to the cage. “You need to count everything in there.”

  The cage was just what it sounded like: a small room set in the corner with two large doors, but only one was used to enter and exit. The other one had been cut in half. The bottom had the door handle. It could swing open and closed, but the other section of the door had been taken off, cut in half again and glued over the top so it looked like half a concession stand.

  Years ago, it had looked rough, but they had made it look better. It looked like an equipment room any top-notch facility would use now. The budget had been good to this place.

  Heading in, I switched on the light. The cage had been organized. All the balls were in place, the equipment in its spots. I scuffed my foot over the floor. Even that had been cleaned.

  “Grant, you did this?”

  He’d just cleared the screen door, but hollered back through it, “Nah.”

  Grant wasn’t a liar, so that meant Mary had done it.

  I yelled back, “Thank your mom for me, please.”

  He raised a hand in response, crossing the first of the two courts.

  I got myself to work, and I was kneeled down behind a partition, going through the second rack of hockey equipment, when I heard the first voices. They came closer and closer, and I couldn’t move.

  Grant had left twenty minutes ago, so no one knew I was back here. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a breath. Meditation, bitches. I’d need to become a namaste maestro by the end of these three weeks, but Reese Forster wasn’t here.

  I whispered that to myself, over and over again. I hoped fervently it would give me some form of bearing so I wouldn’t get swept up in the craziness.

  “—gotta call the woman and check in.”

  Yes. I recognized that voice. I’d heard it from locker-room interviews, but I wasn’t going to name the Cruskinator. If I did, I’d be nutso.

  I wasn’t going to be nutso.

  Someone else responded, “You have a four year old, right?”

  “Yeah. He’s such a little punk—”

  He sounded so fond of his kid.

  The Cruskinator kept talking, but the word rascal did it for me.

  I could rattle off his stats for four years in a row—not the last four years, but a few years before that—yet hearing him call his kid a rascal grounded me.

  He was a father, and a good father from what I’d read.

  A different voice: “You guys seen Aiden?”

  The door to the cage rattled, but it held firm. I forgot I’d locked it. It’d been an automatic motion for me, a policy Keith hammered into our heads so no campers could get in and steal the equipment.

  That same voice: “Door’s locked. We don’t have any balls to shoot with.”

  “Half the guys are heading to the cabins to call their families.”

  That guy grunted. “True. We could come back later?”

  Cruskinator asked, “When’s Forster showing up?”

  The squeak of their shoes on the floor. They were moving away.

  The screen door protested as someone hit it open.

  “I thought tomorrow…”

  They faded away after that, and I let out a deep breath.

  Okay. I’d been acting like a twenty-something, which I was, but I needed to rein it in. I was twenty-seven. I was almost an adult. Kind of. God help everyone, but I was annoying even myself.

  Yes, these guys were some of my idols. Yes, I had watched them when I was with Damian—and my throat was burning again.

  Damian.

  Being back here shouldn’t have brought him to my mind, but he was everywhere. Everyone grew up. Everyone had formed a family—got married, had kids, got divorced. One guy went to prison. Working here, we’d all had dreams, together, and my dream had been shattered.

  And no one knew why.

  I felt a tear slide down my face.

  The gym’s lights were on a timer, which chose this moment to turn off. It seemed fitting, so I didn’t move. I remained in place—no questions bouncing in my head, no jokes on my tongue—and for the first time in a long while, I let myself feel. A monsoon of grief pushed through me, tearing everything in me and commanding I deal with it.

  Well. Fuck that.

  Feeling sucked. Who liked to cry? I couldn’t do it.

  I thought I could. I changed my mind.

  I was pushing myself up from the floor when the lights switched back on. The screen door shoved open. I heard angry stomping coming across the room as the door slammed shut, and before I could prepare myself, Reese Forster was standing smack in front of the cage, his stormy eyes locked on me.

  “I need a ball.”

  Shit. I was going there. I tried to stop myself, but, “What’s your criteria for determining who you choose to be a fuck buddy?”

  He scowled. “The fuck you say?”

  Oh shitty crap.

  My idol was scowling at me, and I swallowed over a piece of bark in my throat. I had to go for bro
ke here. If I didn’t, I’d forever be a freak in his eyes. I could not go to my grave knowing Reese Forster—who was overwhelmingly live and livid and lovely—would think of me as that freak fan.

  (Though, I kinda was.)

  (Slightly.)

  (Okay. Completely.)

  So, taking a breath, I rushed out, “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” I might’ve. “I have a problem.”

  The scowling lessened, but his eyes were still narrowed at me.

  “It’s just something weird I do. It’ll go away. I hope,” I explained. “I just—I don’t know where I picked it up, but when I’m nervous or excited or angry or if I just can’t deal with whatever I’m feeling, these stupid questions burst out of me.”

  Stop. Take a breath.

  The bark was still there. Ouch.

  And once more.

  “I’m nervous,” I added. “Soo nervous.” I bent over suddenly.

  The scowl was gone. His head cocked sideways, and he stepped back, his hands stuffed in his hoodie. I was either back to the alien theme or he was looking at me like I was nuts. Which was still in the freak category.

  I waved a hand in the air, puffing out. “I’m good. I’ll be fine. Nothing to see here. Totally normal.”

  I felt them coming. More. They were going to burst out of me.

  Annnnnd…here we go.

  “If you were guaranteed the truth, what question would you ask someone?”

  I bent down farther, resting my forehead to the counter, but another question came out. It was mumbled. “Favorite curse word to use while having sex? Or biking? Or having sex on a bike?”

  Fuck.

  Damn.

  Shit.

  I’d just answered my own question, and I bit my lip.

  It wasn’t working.

  I tried my cheek. Ow! And that wasn’t working either.

  “What do a mullet and a ferret have in common?”

  GAH!

  I bit down harder, and this time I tasted blood. I was almost hyperventilating again. If I went down a few more inches, I could just buckle to the ground, wrap my arms around my knees, and hope to disappear.

  I’d started to think I should do that when I heard a soft chuckle.

  “I would ask my brother something,” he said. “I like the word fuck for anything, and having sex on a bike sounds fun to try. I can’t think of anything they have in common except the words both have two of the same letters in the middle, both have six letters, and you could put a ferret on someone’s head to look like a mullet.”

  I…had no idea what to do.

  He’d answered my questions.

  No one answered my questions.

  I stayed frozen for a second before lifting my head. I gulped again.

  “You don’t think I’m a freak?”

  “No, I do. You’re crazy.”

  The corner of his mouth tugged up, and holy shit, my heart flopped over in my chest. There was the Reese Forster that was in Person magazine’s Most Beautiful People issue. There was my fantasy for so many years.

  “But I’m hoping you’re harmless.” He laughed softly, his hands pushing down on his hoodie so it stretched from his shoulders to accentuate his physique.

  God.

  This guy.

  I had watched him running up and down the court so many times—I knew his body was lean and muscled. He was solid, but in front of me, he seemed larger than life, with bright hazel eyes. They had a golden ring of honey around the iris, and a smattering of blue and green.

  Long eyelashes.

  High and angular cheekbones.

  A strong jawline that could cut paper, or glass—maybe not glass, but definitely something else. Go back to the water. Man, I had just envisioned him with droplets sliding down his face, lingering at the dip of his chin where it came to the most perfect square end. There was a slight scruff on his face. He hadn’t shaved that day or the day before, giving him a very rough, slightly alarming, and so authoritative air.

  I sighed to myself, my fingers curling around the counter.

  I was ogling.

  I didn’t care.

  After all the questions, this was nothing. The guy must’ve been used to it by now.

  A slight growl vibrated out of him, and my gaze snapped up to his.

  His hair. I was distracted again. It was the perfect short length and a dirty blond color. It matched the honey in his eyes.

  In some ways, it wasn’t fair.

  No guy could measure against him. None.

  “Would you stop fucking leering at me? I don’t do camp groupies.” He thrust a hand out, pointing behind me. “I want a ball. Now.”

  I snapped to attention, jerking around. I grabbed a ball and thrust it at him. “Here.”

  He took it and rotated swiftly on his feet, pushing the ball to the ground in a bounce as he stepped over it at the same time. He began dribbling as he went to the court—so smoothly, so naturally, it was like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

  Legend.

  L-e-g-e-n-d.

  There was a sign-out sheet campers were supposed to use when they took equipment, but sorry, Keith. No camp policy for this guy, though I did scribble his name on the paper. My hand was trembling so much it looked like a chicken scratch.

  Oh well.

  It’d have to do.

  He ignored me and began shooting hoops. He’d toss the ball up. It’d go through the basket, with a nice swishing sound, and he’d grab it off the first bounce to follow with a quick layup.

  I was riveted.

  My whole body had been shaking, but he kept going, and going, and going, and after what must’ve been an entire hour, I felt calm.

  I almost wanted to freak out, realizing that, but nope.

  Watching him play, the same motion over and over and over again, was soothing. He had such control every time he touched the ball. He never struggled. The ball answered his commands seamlessly, as if connected to him through a mental string.

  The room was rippling with the power he had, but as I relaxed and lounged back against the wall, I began to pick up what else was coming off of him. And I felt anger. His anger. His bounces were hard and forceful. His shoulders were tense, so was his jaw as he kept his head bent down.

  All pro players were phenomenal athletes, but when Reese was on the court, he was different. I should know. I watched him enough. He could move the ball around like it was magic, sending it through legs, outstretched arms, and behind his own back. There were times when he was in the Reese Zone, as the announcers liked to call it, when he almost toyed with his opponents. He could send off a quick round of sharp and abrasive dribbling, then suddenly, whoosh, that ball was either in the air or in the hands of his teammate and his defender had barely blinked.

  I watched him for another hour, and he never slowed down.

  Bounce, bounce, pivot, then up for a layup. Sometimes, he fell back and tossed it up in a pretty arc, what would be a teardrop shot or a floater. Other times, a hard hit against the backboard. Just over and over again.

  A quick rebound.

  Or back to the three-point line.

  The free-throw line.

  He just kept on.

  After a third hour, he started to slow down.

  Another player came in the side door, but he saw Reese playing, and after a second of watching him, he eased back out.

  I didn’t think it was coincidence that Juan Cartion came to stand outside another side door a few minutes later. He made no move to come inside. It was apparent he was there to watch his best friend, and when Reese switched from shooting hoops to walking up and down the court dribbling the ball in short, angry staccato beats, his friend left.

  A normal person would’ve lost the ball in two seconds.

  Reese never did.

  My phone beeped.

  Dazed, I grabbed it to see what the alert was.

  Trent: Headed to my room. Where are you? I need to get to bed, early flight in the morning.


  He wanted to come and say goodbye. I was weird about goodbyes. Just tack that on to the long list of what made me special, but it was what it was. I hated saying goodbye. Despised. Loathed. Strongly opposed. You name it, I was. There was a reason for it, and as I remembered and felt that pressure building in my chest, I shut it down.

  It was ironic because that shut everything else off too.

  Me: Damian called. Mind if I give you a goodbye hug through our phones? Can you feel it?

  Damian was one of the few reasons Trent would believe I needed space.

  I felt a burning in my throat. The bark had moved to the side.

  I hit send, and there was a small pause.

  Trent: Sounds good. Call me if you want to talk.

  I pocketed the phone, knowing I wouldn’t call, knowing he knew I wouldn’t call, and knowing we both knew the next time we’d talk was when he came back at the end of this whole preseason training camp.

  Turning off the light in the cage, I slid onto the stool behind the counter.

  I sat and watched Reese Forster play, knowing this was a special moment in my life. I wanted to protect it, even if that meant lying to a friend.

  I was okay with that, and if I explained it to Trent later, I thought he’d be okay with it too.

  Babe.

  Buzz.

  I’m sorry.

  Buzz.

  Babe, forgive me.

  Buzz.

  Babe.

  Buzz.

  Babe.

  Buzz.

  Babe.

  Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  I swatted at a fly. It was waking me up, and it kept coming around. Finally, hearing another buzz, I bolted upright with my pillow in hand, and I swung. That sucker was going down.

  But…

  No fly.

  I swung and the pillow hit me in the face. I ate cloth.

  I had to sit for a minute and get my bearings, but when I heard another buzz, along with the words of Ricky Nelson’s “Baby I’m Sorry,” which I had programmed at an accidental brilliant moment. The song sounded different because I got the phone to sing it in an Australian accent. Genius, I tell you.