Page 216 of The Locker Room
It just wasn"t any fun to share the shot, if Chris couldn"t take it
instead.
Sacramento was eleven games up. They were playoff-bound, and
probably had been since December. Xander"s season was officially going
into June, goddammit, but that didn"t mean he didn"t have to play the last
game of the regular season, same as Chris.
Xander played his at San Antonio, on the tail end of a three-game
road trip, and Chris played his at home. Xander got back to the hotel in
time to watch Colorado—one game out of playoff position—almost take
it in the teeth to Boston.
“Aww, fuck,” Xander muttered. “Chris, goddammit, Iknowyou
could have made that last three-pointer!”
Chris"s playing had been off since March—since the NCAA break,
when Xander had caught him spiking his orange juice with vodka.
Chris hadn"t missed his morning phone calls (although he looked
crappier and crappier during them), and Xander would haveknownif
he"d been playing drunk, but that didn"t keep worry from being a
constant roil in his stomach.
The Locker Room 187
He"d taken to calling Cliff at night, before bed, just to check on
him.
“Hey, Cliff, how you doing?”
“Look, man—I think he"s fine. But you know? He"s got his own
room. As long as he doesn"t stain the comforter or mess up the curtains,
he could be doing Jack, blow, and heroin in there, right?”
(Oh Jesus. Thanks a lot, you bastard.) “Is he?”
“No, Jesus, Xander, of course not! Or at least I"m sure about
everything but the Jack. Why don"t you call him yourself?”
“Because I"m texting him while we"re talking, and his spelling"s
better than this, dammit!”
