Page 166 of The Locker Room
when they were hustling down the court to block the other team"s next
attempt at scoring.
They failed, and the gap widened to nearly twenty-five points, and
Xander fought the urge to get out his phone and text Chris to tell him
that he quit—he was going to buy these clowns some red shoes and
striped pants and let them entertain the crowdthatway.
Because the crowd was sure as shit not laughing now, were they?
But Xander didn"t yell. He was known for it. He didn"t yell, and he
didn"t coach. He ran in, did his job, led by example, and shared the ball
as often as he could, as long as it would benefit the team.
And when Chris was by his side that was enough. With Chris to
jolly everyone along, tell them to have their heads up for the pass,
rebound the ball and give it back so Xander could find someone else to
make the shot, well, they pretty much couldn"t be beat. But now it was
Xander, and he was on the sidelines watching five years of their work go
spiraling down the fucking drain, and he couldn"t bear it. Not tonight.
Not when Chris had woken him up that morning with a phone call to
make sure he was all right—and because Chris knew, to the minute,
when Xander"s nightmares were the worst.
Not when sleeping in that big house without Christian felt like
being alone in a box, only bigger, darker, and more frightening than it
The Locker Room 143
had ever been when he was a kid and didn"t know how much he had to
lose.
Wallick was not pleased at the half. And Xander hoped
everybody"s asshole hurt, because the coach had gnawed on them for a
good five minutes at the half before stalking back through the tunnel
connecting the locker room to the arena to confer with his assistant coach
on who was playing third quarter. Xander, who had hated the guy on
principle before, and now hated him with a particular personal flair,
