Page 56 of Foul Line

Ryan’s phone ringing breaks into my internal thoughts. He pulls it out of his pocket and answers it. “Yeah?” After a pause, he says, “You let him drink!?”

I glance over at him. Ryan’s profile is all taut muscle. He’s squeezing the life out of his cell phone. I barely hear the other voice on the line, but it’s raised now, too.

“Christ, Sloan.”

“Sloan?” I ask, unable to help myself.

Ryan sighs. Then, he says into the phone, “Yes, it’s Tessa.” There’s another pause, and he says, “I don’t know why you couldn’t get a hold of her.”

“What’s going on?”

Ryan drops his hand to his lap. “The guys are at a bar in town. They borrowed a car from one of the other players, but they’ve all been drinking. They need a ride back to camp.”

I stare unbelievingly in front of me. Ryan and I are almost back to camp ourselves, but I certainly can’t let them stay at the bar like that. If my dad or any of the other coaches found out that they went and got drunk, they’d probably get kicked out of camp. Not to mention that they’re all underage. I take a left down the next turn, and then do a U-turn to bring us back to the main road.

“We’re on our way,” Ryan says after he pulls the phone back to his ear. “What bar are you at?” Ryan ends the call a few moments later without saying goodbye. “Fucking idiots,” he fumes.

“The drinking?”

He shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Not just the drinking,” he says. “I go away for one night. Not even for a night. For one evening.”

He seems a little too upset about them drinking than I would’ve imagined. I know they do that. Never on a game night or anything, but I’ve heard stories about parties that I was never invited to during practice Monday afternoons. It’s not like the Ballers are saints. At least I can say that they would never let it interfere with basketball.

Ryan seems super agitated now. His knee is bobbing up and down. He keeps checking his phone like he’s going to get another message, or a phone call any minute. He’s so nervous it’s making me nervous, and I can’t help but think there’s something far more serious going on.

“What is it, Ryan?”

“Just drive,” he says. “Okay? Just drive.”

Because of the urgency in his voice, I push the pedal down a little harder. Despite the fact that he seems so pissed that they’re at a bar, he knows exactly where the place is. I pull into the parking lot around the side of the building in case my dad and Leslie are still around town. My car is unmistakable in this town.

Ryan practically leaps from the car, slams the door behind him, and is at a jog when he hits the front door of the bar named Charlie’s. I have to run to catch up with him. When we get in there, all hell is about to break loose.

Holy shit…

28

The first thing I see when we barge inside like we own the place is an older man gripping the collar on Alec’s shirt. He has it in a white-knuckle grip, his face a sneer of rage that makes my stomach bottom out. Sloan is behind Alec’s body, trying to edge his way through. The other locals aren’t far behind the angry man holding Alec. The air whooshes out of me as Ryan rushes forward. I grab at air trying to stop him, but his fist pulls back and slams into the cheek of the guy holding Alec.

The rest is a tangle of limbs as I gasp at the scene ahead of me. There were never fights at Broadwell. It sounds ridiculous to even say, but the rich boys and girls don’t fight with fists. They have other means. This expression of power and anger is new to me. Sure, I’ve wanted to pummel Lake—along with the rest of the guys—but this is beyond anything I’ve ever imagined myself doing. It’s like a pure display of testosterone and dick measuring that turns my stomach. Insults and crass curses fly in between the thuds of contact. The Ballers give as good as they get, which is almost shocking to me. The crowd in here is mostly middle-aged. We’re fucking teenagers for crying out loud.

“Stop!” I yell.

But it’s fruitless. No one’s listening. I step forward, my knees wobbling. A fist lands on Ryan’s brow, and his skin splits open. Sloan’s lip is bleeding. Alec, I can’t even see right now.

My gaze searches the bar for Hayes. He’s propping Lake up, one arm slung over his shoulders. He looks completely out of it. His eyes are rolled back into his head, his head bobbing to the side. Hayes looks up and meets my eyes. “Get out of here,” he grits out.

I move forward. I don’t know what to do next. Help Hayes with Lake, so he can help his other friends or try to talk some sense into these Neanderthals. All my life, it’s been basketball first. Nothing came between me and it, but it’s clear the Ballers maybe don’t have the same hang-ups I do.

“Get the fuck out of here, Tessa,” Hayes says.

My lips form a thin line. I walk up to Lake and put his hand over my shoulder to help Hayes carry him out. “I got him,” I tell Hayes. I silently plead with him to help Alec, Sloan, and Ryan.

Lake’s head swivels around. His eyes are hooded, but he blinks when he sees me. Despite his drunken state, he somehow manages to pull away from me. “Get the fuck off me, Dale. I fucking hate you.”

“Feeling’s mutual, prick.” I tug his arm back around my shoulder. “I’ve got him,” I tell Hayes. “Help the others.”

Again, Lake must gather some sort of strength from somewhere. He can hardly keep himself upright, but he manages to push me. Because I’m not ready for it, I fall to the ground. My hip hits the wooden floor of the bar hard. “Get the fuck away from me, bitch,” Lake slurs. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.” He bends over to get in my face, but he trips over his feet and ends up falling. We’re too close for comfort, and he immediately backs away. “I loathe you.”

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