Page 26 of Broken Play
Baker: Everything works out the way it should. My hometown isn't far from the Kings' stadium, and I'll get to see my son more. He lives with his mom.
Me: Stay in touch. If you want to grab a beer tonight, I'll buy.
Baker: The Kings want me right away so we can get in some practice before the next preseason game.
Me: All right, man. Good luck.
Baker: Ms. Anders told me you were furious. Thanks for having my back, but you do need better protection on the left side.
Me: Yeah, I guess. Next time you're in town, the beer is on me.
As I roll up onto my family's land, the driveway's already a parking lot—five cars deep, and none of them belong to my family. I angle my truck onto the grass so I don't have to move it every time someone wants to leave.
Pushing the side door open, I nearly trip over a pile of sneakers blocking the entryway—every brand and color under the sun. The living room's packed with college kids. Laughter ricochets off the walls, and there's enough cologne in the air that it's possible I'll suffocate.
Noelle, my sister, is in the middle of it all, ponytail swinging as she slings one arm around her boyfriend, one of the stars of their college football team. He spots me and tips his chin up, barely suppressing a smirk. "If it isn't the new Armadillo quarterback. Getting traded must suck."
A few scattered laughs filter through the room, and others gasp. My jaw tightens, but Noelle runs over and hugs me. "Are you staying? We're going to play flag football."
"I came by to talk to Dad. Is he here?"
"Nope, he went to pick up pizzas."
"How about Witt?"
"Yeah, he's in his room, like always."
I let out a disappointed sigh. "Noelle, he needs you."
"What am I supposed to do? I invited him."
I bound up the stairs, two at a time, and rap on Witt's door. Silence. Figures. Dad and Noelle always say he neverhears a thing. I nudge the door open and spot Witt sprawled in front of his massive TV, Beats clamped over his ears, thumbs flying over the controller. He's so locked into his game, he doesn't even notice me standing there.
I plop down beside him, and he jolts. "Hey, big guy." He's taller than both J.D. and I were at his age, but he's long and lanky.
He gives the old side-eye and lifts the Beats, not quite removing them. "Hey."
"Playing football? Who with?" I lean forward and pull my knees to my chest. The games these days are amazing. At first glance, you would think this was a live professional football game. The players, the field, and even the crowd look lifelike.
"I'm in a tournament," he says, laser-focused on the competition.
"May I watch?"
He shrugs without glancing in my direction, but since he didn't kick me out, I settle in, and after about five minutes, I nudge him with my knee. "Can you take off the Beats so I can hear?"
Witt huffs like it's a big inconvenience, but he slides the headphones around his neck and hits something so I can hear the game.
I'm in awe of how good he is. Then I notice he's using my avatar as his quarterback. I grin and say, "That play is Red-Oz-Dorothy from Denver."
Even though he's in the zone, a ghost of a smile flashes but fades just as quickly. The faux fans erupt as he—well, me—throws a fifty-yard touchdown pass.
"Yes," I shout as if I'm playing an actual game, and Witt rolls his eyes, then gets right back at it. The steady clicksfrom the controller combined with hearing the guy he's playing against make it exciting. Twenty minutes later, Witt pumps his fist in victory.
"Players, we'll take a half-hour break. Stretch those fingers."
"Who is that?" I ask.
Witt's voice is flat. "The tournament coordinator."
