Page 77 of Scoring the Player
Tomorrow you will reach for some dead thing.
Post-game interviews when you’re on the losing end are really the high times of life. The media wants to know why you’re a loser, and you have to keep your head up while confessing your and your team’s shortcomings. Sid and I take turns grunting through one ear-stabbing question after another.
We’re hauling our egos back to the locker room when Sid taps my arm and backs up.
Cillian and Salem take seats at the press table.
“How do you feel about tonight’s game?” the same interviewer who just asked us in sports code why we’re such losers, asks Cillian.
“Splendid. We just loved having them.”
He turns to Salem, who nods and adds, “So respectful. You’d hardly know they were here.”
The room echoes with laughter.
“In the third quarter, when Cade moved in to defend you?—”
“Oh, that’s what he was doing?” Salem quips, and the press erupts again.
Sid steps back. “Your boyfriend got jokes.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
I’m just obsessed with the way his metal massaged the back of my throat.
I catch up to Sid and ask, “What were you talking to him about after the game?”
“Why?” He leans in and sniffs me, and I lurch back.
“Stop that.”
“Smells like a crush.”
“No.” I sniff my shirt.
He smirks. “Ready to roll?”
We reachan elegant three-story brownstone with an iron-like gate, window railings, and polished brass numbers affixed to the glass and wood door.
“Pretty.” I sweep my gaze over the tree-lined block.
“Fort Greene is one of my favorite neighborhoods,” Sid says.
“Ty grew up around here, right?”
“Born and raised until his parents passed, then he moved to Jersey to live with his uncle.” I expect him to ring the bell once we reach the top of the landing, but he pulls out a key and unlocks the door. “Besides my mom’s house, this place is like a second home for us.”
We remove our shoes.
“Mmm.” I sniff the air. “Garlic.”
He crinkles his nose. “And butter.” He takes my bag and places it on the entry bench. “A-yo, we’re here. Everyonedecent?” he calls out as we make our way past a curved staircase with muted gold and black wallpaper and soft lighting.
“In here,” adeep voice calls back.
My socks skate against the hardwood floor as we head down a hallway.
“In here” is a sprawling family room. I zero in on the Steinway on the far side of the room, adjacent to the dining room table, and my fingers tingle. “Sheesh.” I whistle and spin. The high ceiling has embossed tiles in rustic gold, deep grays, and slate blue accenting the exposed beams.
