Page 13 of Game On

After some stretches, I start with an easy jog around the track. I don’t want to sound conceited, but the exertion is nothing for me. Running back and forth down the court hundreds of times a night? That’s tiring. This is a leisurely stroll. After a mile, I pick up the pace, running sprints for 100 yards, 200 yards, with breaks in between. I do that for another half hour or so until I end out the final sprint with a mile full out. By the time I finish, I collapse onto the track right next to where I started. Sweat drips from my forehead down the sides of my face and into my eyes. I pull my tank top up and wipe at it, still trying to catch my breath. My lungs burn as I gulp in air, but my limbs are tingling with power. There’s nothing like it. I feel unstoppable.

“Damn, Tessa. Looking good.”

I quickly wipe my eyes again and look up. A pit opens in the bottom of my stomach as I stare up at Lake O’Brien. The evening sun makes his dark features even darker.

“Got some abs, I see.”

I roll my eyes and go to get up, but he stands over me. The look he gives me while he straddles my hips sends predatory shivers down me. Out of all the Ballers, I think it’s safe to say that Lake hates me the most. Same player position makes us automatic competition for one another. He’d deny it in front of my father, but I know he hates the idea of losing to a girl. He sucks down his pride at camp, but the lingers of his creepy stare always stay with me. “Leave me alone, Lake.”

Another figure steps up next to him, startling me. Holy shit. There’s two of them. This kid is the spitting image of Lake when I met him when we were thirteen. How did I not know he had a brother?

“This is River,” Lake says, his gaze narrowing, and his cheekbones sharpen to points. “River never gets to come to camp because of you.”

The urge to eye roll is strong. How else is stupidity supposed to be conveyed?

I try to scoot back so I can stand, but Lake just moves until he’s over my hips again, eyes just as menacing if not more so. “He plays shooting guard, too.”

Ohh. I see. Camp Dale only takes the best of the best for each position. For shooting guard, that’s me, Lake here, and Grover Lane from the opposite side of the state. I get comfortable on the ground like he’s not intimidating the hell out of me. I refuse to sit up and have his crotch be in my face. Reaching my hands behind my head, I lay back and stare over at River. “Just keep trying,” I tell him, meaning to be helpful. I glare at Lake for making this about anything other than talent. “If you want it bad enough, you need to work for it.”

“Like you do,” young River scoffs.

I look back and forth between the two of them. Of course River would have perfected the asshole stare too, and the fact that things should just be given to them because they have dicks. “I work for my shit.” In my head, I envision all the nights staying up late playing by the spotlight my dad added to the court. The work here on this track. The time spent in the gym. Fuck these guys.

“Daddy gives it to you,” Lake spits.

I want to laugh, but this shit is getting old. “Don’t lie to yourself, Lake. That’s the worst thing you can do. If you spent as much time working out than you did complaining that I beat you, you might have bested me already.”

His eyes flare. He kneels down, one knee by my hip now. “I’m better than you,” he says through gritted teeth.

What’s sad is that he looks like he believes it. He legitimately believes his lie about my dad giving me my recognitions because he doesn’t want to believe I can beat him. Little does he know, my dad never judges me. Never. He lets the other coaches do that, so he won’t be tempted to score me higher. Which is outright ridiculous anyway. My dad is far harder on me than he’s ever been on any other player.

Suddenly, though, this has turned from just a war of words to something more. Lake’s pulse is throbbing at his neck. His muscles are strained and shaking. He looks as if he wants to kick my ass. I look from one O’Brien to the other. They mirror one another, each one of them feeling as if I’ve taken something from them. What words am I supposed to come up with to placate them now? I know what my mouth wants to say, but I’m also a hell of a lot smarter than that. “Let me up,” I say finally, trying to hide the shake in my voice.

“No,” River says, moving to my feet.

I glance at his brother then back to him. “I’m not fucking around, Lake. Get off me.”

They glare at me. I can’t even fathom the animosity in their dark eyes. “Hold her legs,” Lake says casually.

For a beat, I don’t move. The whole thing sounds just so preposterous. When I realize I should’ve been more worried than I was, it’s too late. River snatches my feet. I try to kick out, but he’s strong and has a good grip. He holds my ankles under his armpits and then wraps his arms around my calves where his fingers dig into me. Struggling, I reach up to push Lake off, but he holds my arms down and then leans his knees on them, pinning me to the ground.

Knots tie up my stomach. The only body part I can move is my hips until Lake sits back, taking an object out of his pocket. He smiles at the Sharpie. If it wasn’t such a sadistic smile, I’d say he was handsome even then. He pops the top and throws it to the side. He leans forward, aiming the marker for my face. “What are you doing?” I cry, thrashing harder now.

Lake chuckles darkly. The closer he comes, the more I move my head around. He growls, then forces my head to the track, leaning his weight against my head until it throbs. I buck and turn, but the O’Brien boys are too much for me. Lake’s writing on my face now. He does it fast as tears spring to my eyes. They’re marking me. I’m helpless. I can’t move, powerless to stop them.

“Help!” I yell. I call out several times, but just as the last scream exits my body, Lake sits up, tossing the marker to the side. River drops my legs and they fall to the track. They seem so much heavier now than they did right after I finished running.

I scramble to my feet, but Lake has his cell phone out taking picture after picture.

I turn away, eyes stinging as tears run down my face. I grab my cell and keys I left on the track and run for my car. My heart pounds in my chest, beating a fast rhythm of ‘get the fuck out of here’ while you can. After I start the car, I peel out of there so fast. My whole body is shaking. I’m embarrassed. I’m scared. I’m fucking livid.

Slamming the steering wheel, I can’t keep myself from crying. I scream once, then try to slow the beating of my heart. I wipe at my face and stare at my hands, but whatever he wrote on me is there like a tattoo. My stomach churns, sick with the violation.

I knew they hated me, but I never thought they’d take it that far. I thought we would fight it out on the court. Fight it out with words and fucked up signs posted everywhere on the school grounds, but never did I think any one of them would go so far as to do something physical to me. No, Lake didn’t punch me. He didn’t hurt me even. What he did was far, far worse.

The curves up the mountain to my house go by quick. Before I know it, I’m pulling past the TD pillar and driving up to my house. I shut the car off and lean back in the seat, my chest rising and lowering in short gasps. Looking up at the visor, I know all I have to do is pull it down to see what he did. The tears have since dried on my face. Now my skin is clammy and sticky. Without thinking too much, I close my eyes and then quickly reach up to flip the visor open.

My stomach freefalls.

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