Page 45 of The Assist
“It’s fine,” I grit out.
“Doesn’t look fine out there. You’re favoring it. Stay off it, ice it, check in with the trainers.” He finally looks at me, taking his eyes from the action on the court. Concern, or maybe just disappointment, etches his features. “We need you ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
Coach blows the whistle, and the guys stop as he starts barking at them about lazy defense.
Hanging my head, I welcome the pain in my foot. It reminds me that I have one season left. This is it. I don’t have delusions about playing in the NBA. Maybe I could make it as a late pick, but it just hasn’t ever felt like the right path for me. There are better, faster, and stronger point guards out there. My mental game is what’s kept me competing at this level. That, and a whole damn lot of dedication. Guys that make it beyond college, though? They have it all—mental, dedication, and raw talent. Guys like Z.
The man himself takes a seat next to me and wipes a towel across his shaved head. I know he’s here as a silent comfort, but I can’t bring myself to feel anything but anger and self-pity.
“This fucking sucks.” I sound like a bratty teenager, but Z only nods with a grim acceptance of what I’m saying.
“Did you see that behind the back pass Shaw tried to pull off? Crazy kid is gonna cost us games out there trying to be the next Jason Williams.”
I hear the question in his statement. “Fuck. I’ll work with him. He has talent. He’s just trying to force too much too fast.”
Z tosses the towel and stands. “The guys are going to Theta house tonight. You in?”
“Nah. Blair and I are going to watch Mason play. He’s starting pitcher tonight.”
The big center grins, which is a rare sight on his serious face. “Another date with Blair. She sleeping over this time? Do I need to make myself scarce to avoid your headboard banging against our shared wall? I could stay in Joel’s room.”
“I think the theater room couch is a more sanitary spot than Joel’s room.”
We both laugh and cringe at the same time because Joel getting the master on the other end of the house was probably the best for all the roommates. No one wants to be within hearing distance of his room. The guy’s room is a revolving door.
“You’re a lucky man.” The words hang between us and the irony isn’t lost on me that we both seem to be coveting the other’s life. I never imagined Z wanting anything other than ball. “Blair is great. I’ll find somewhere else to stay tonight so you don’t have to worry about me listening in. Enjoy the night with your girl. Hers is probably a much better shoulder to cry on right now than mine, anyway.”
“I don’t know, big guy, I think I might feel much safer in your big beefy arms.” I bat my eyelashes at him and the tension lifts.
“You’re the best point man I’ve ever played with.”
He walks off, and I’m glad he doesn’t try to tell me everything will be okay or some other cheesy cliché. The game is a few days away, and I’m having serious doubts that my foot can hold up through forty minutes of play.
When I get to the house, Blair is already there. She’s on the sofa, bare feet pulled up and crossed, she’s the picture of comfort. I could get used to coming home and finding her here. I love that she feels at ease with my friends, it’s just another way she positions herself above the rest.
Joel stands in the middle of the living room, turning with his arms held out to his sides like he’s a princess twirling in her fancy new dress. Except this Latino princess holds a basketball in one outstretched hand.
“What the hell is going on in here? A fashion show?”
He tosses the ball at my head, which I catch because I’ve got reflexes like a cat.
“Blair is helping me pick a shirt for tonight.”
Ball in hand, I take a seat next to Blair and pull her closer before delving any further into whatever messed-up, dress-up game is going on.
“Why the obsession over attire tonight?”
It isn’t that Joel doesn’t always dress nice, but he’s never asked me, or anyone else I know, if we approved of his outfit. Dudes don’t do that. He’ll be asking if his butt looks big next.
“He struck out getting a number this afternoon and is now all bent out of shape.” Nathan’s voice is filled with humor and judging by the death glare Joel shoots him, I know it’s true.
That makes me smile. “Aww, you poor, poor schmuck.”
“That isn’t what this is about. It was one girl. One girl.” He flashes his index finger, but he sounds so desperate and whiny we burst into laughter.
“Fuck you all,” he says but smiles. He runs his hands down the shirt and rolls the sleeves up on either side. “So, this one is good?”
