Page 116 of The Locker Room

---

flight. The words were bandied about for weeks, because Xander was

supposed to be “stoic” and not “poet,” but he didn"t care. That"s how it

felt—charmed, magical, personal—and before the other team even

realized they"d suffered a turnover, Xander was on the outside of the

key, where he executed a running three-point shot in front of a raging

crowd.

That made it in right before the buzzer.

His team was surrounding him, thumping him on the back, rubbing

his sweaty hair, patting his ass, and he was right back with them, in their

midst, surrounded by family and light and happy, happy noise. Christian

was there, although after the initial hug with the rest of the team he did

what he did in high school—showboated, held clenched fists to the

heavens and reared back and roared, leapt impossible heights into the air

and whooped—and Xander was not alone, far away, in a box.

He was as happy here as he was in Chris"s arms, only the happiness

was louder, brighter, and sharper on the nerves. Even Xander, in the eye

of the maelstrom, knew it wasn"t the sort of happiness that was meant to

last—but that didn"t mean it wasn"t sweet.

The mood at the team watering hole was triumphant, and the

women who had managed to filter in through bouncers and propriety

seemed to double in number every time Xander looked. They celebrated

for a couple of hours, they talked with their teammates, relived their

shots, and everyone lifted their glass to Xander and the “magic-bird-ball”

even as the sound bite was replayed again and again on the monitors

above them.

Things wound down, though—they had to. Chris put a heavy hand

on his shoulder, and Xander looked up to where a group of girls milled,

looking at the unattached players in a faintly predatory way.

100 Amy Lane

“Should I guess which one you"re going to pick?” Chris asked

---