Page 83 of The Assist
He’s flirting...I think. It’s almost like the playful banter we used to have that kept me on my toes and gave me full body tingles. My head and heart are conflicted. I do forgive him, but it’s too hard to be around him like this. Wes Reynolds isn’t the kind of guy you can be friends with after you’ve had more.
“I hear tomorrow night’s game is going to be a good one.”
He nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Utah is tough. They run a combination defense that . . .” He stops himself, and I wonder how long it’s been since he’s talked basketball. Is he going to practices? Has he stopped sulking and started travelling with the team again? They’re questions I want to ask, but I know it would be crossing some invisible line he’s drawn.
“Thank you for the candy,” I say instead. “I guess I’ll see you at the game.”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided if I’m going to go.”
“What? Why not? You have to go.” I stop and stare after him. He can’t be serious.
He lifts one shoulder and lets it fall. “They don’t need me there.”
“Maybe not in the way you want to be there, but they do need you. You’re their leader. You said so yourself.”
His jaw flexes. “Enjoy the candy. Congrats on your first workshop. Text me if anyone gives you any trouble.”
34
Wes
I can seethe steady stream of people entering Ray Fieldhouse from the window in our living room. It’s weird to watch people come to a game decked out in blue and yellow. They hurry from their cars to the front door as excitement and hope that the home team will pull through radiates from them.
A contradiction to the way the bus of Utah players walked in two hours earlier. Slow, taking it all in and adjusting to being in someone else’s house. They walked into my house, but it isn’t really mine anymore, and it’s fucking weird and awful. I consider where I should be. Do I go to the game and sit on the bench like I somehow still belong? Sitting in the bleachers isn’t fucking happening. That’s my team but in a completely different way than the fans think it’s their team. I built that team, and spent the last four years busting my ass. Z and I crafted a team that is strong and quick and smart.
When the parking lot finally calms, I step out onto the front porch, and the sounds assault me. The rise and fall of the crowd cheering is my scoreboard, the refs whistle a shrill sound that brings silence that is more nerve wracking than the noise. I’m sweating, and my foot throbs as I pace back and forth, picturing it all.
I remove my hat, pull at my hair and then stop. Gonna make myself bald with the amount of tugging I’ve been doing. I put the hat back on and pull out my phone, giving in to my temptation to check the score online. I’ve missed two texts from Blair.
Blair: Are you here?
Blair: Where are you? Get here NOW.
Well, fuck, now I’m even more curious about what the hell is going on. Do they need me like the game is going bad or it’s going well and she wants me to see the team finally meshing? I’m not even sure which would hurt less.
Or, Christ, maybe someone is messing with her. So far, people seem to have gotten the message that I’m not playing around when it comes to protecting Blair, but maybe my absence has brought out the bullies.
I cross the street and slow down as I approach.
“Wes! Wes!”
I catch a mass of brown hair in my peripheral and turn. Blair is running toward me, waving her arms. We’re the only two people out here, so it isn’t like I could miss her.
“Hey. You’re here.” Her breaths are shallow, and she puts a hand at her waist like she has a cramp from the fifty-yard jog.
My eyes fall to her chest, where the number twelve is proudly displayed. Her eyes follow mine.
“Everything okay? Why aren’t you inside?”
She’s still panting as she says, “I came to find you. Why aren’tyouinside?”
“For what? I can’t play.” What about this is so fucking hard for her to understand?
“They need you. Z looks angrier than ever and Shaw is a mess. You may not be able to play, but they need you right now. You’re still their leader.”
“How bad is it?”
“Go see for yourself.”
