Page 21 of The Fadeaway
I drive to Ray Fieldhouse and walk inside. The women’s basketball team is just finishing up and I wait until they’re gone to grab a ball and dribble onto the court.
If you asked any of my teammates, they’d probably say I prefer game day to practice. I like the roar of the fans, the way that all eyes are on me and my team, and the rush knowing I can bring an entire stadium to their feet with the perfect shot. But being on the court alone, just me, the ball and the hoop – there’s something almost religious about it. No fanfare, no applause, no expectations.
I lose track of time as I shoot. The routine of it soothes me and I’ve nearly forgotten about the girl wreaking havoc on my sanity.
“Moreno, what are you doing here?” Coach’s voice booms across the court. I rebound the ball and turn to find him on the sidelines giving me a confused look. He walks toward me, and I can’t help but notice that from far away he looks like he might be part of the team. Tall, still built, wearing shorts and an old Baylor basketball shirt that’s cut at the sleeves. The year nineteen ninety-nine proudly displayed on the front is faded from being washed too many times. He’s not one of those coaches that looks like he enjoys a big steak dinner every night with boosters and alumni with big pockets. He doesn’t go as far as to scrimmage or workout with us, but I’m certain he could give us all a good run for our money on or off the court.
“Just getting in some shots. Big game tomorrow.”
He eyes me in that way that tells me he knows it’s bullshit, but he doesn’t call me out. “Should go home and get some rest.”
The phone he’s carrying in his hand pings and he grins as he reads whatever is on the screen. Coach lifts his phone in a salute. “Alright, get out of here. I’m gonna do the same.”
Seems everybody has someone to get to tonight except me. Which is bullshit because I could have a dozen different girls waiting for me at home if I wanted. Anyone but her.
Damn her.
9
Katrina
I watchthe end of the Valley game on TV. I’ve never been to a college game in person, but since our basketball team went to the Final Four last year, I guess I’ve got caught up in the excitement as much as the rest of the university.
And it doesn’t hurt that the object of my every thought is wearing jersey number thirty-three and dancing around on the sidelines like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I mean Valley did win, but the rest of his team looks serious and focused despite the victory. Joel looks as comfortable as if he were celebrating a pickup game at the local park.
My mind wanders to Friday night and that kiss.Thatkiss. Never in my life have I been kissed so… thoroughly. Joel kisses like I imagined. No, better. My lips tingle and I bring my fingertips to them wishing I could bring the memory to life. My face warms and I shake my head hoping to clear it. A million and one things to do and my brain replays the look of desire just seconds before he kissed me. He looked atmethat way. Like kissing me was as important as taking his next breath.
Joel’s Valley basketball roster picture splashes on the TV and the announcers discuss his season and daily stats. They continue talking about him until they’re forced to a commercial break and I finally get a second without the greatness of Joel Moreno all up in my grill.
I busy myself around the apartment, folding laundry, doing dishes, and picking up toys until my mind is focused. I grab my laptop and sit on the couch to finish editing the dialogue in the last scene of the play when my phone pings. I reach for it absently, bring it up to my face and glance down ready to dismiss whatever notification or news alert has interrupted my writing.
And stop short.
Jaw gapes.
Body flames.
It’s the second day in a row he’s shocked me by reaching out.
Four little words pummel my heart as I read the notification: JoelMoreno33 wants to send you a message. My social media accounts are locked down and I’ve never been so glad.
I’d be lying if I said I’d never checked out his, which are very much public. His posts and interactions are as entertaining as he is. And let’s not even talk about the photos he’s tagged in. There’s an actual Joel Moreno Fan Page.
My thumb glides over the notification and before I can make too big a deal of it, I press Accept and open the message. It’s a video of a guy taking a shower. You can’t see anything but the guy’s legs until a cat walks into the shower and starts rubbing against him getting all wet but clearly happy for the attention and completely undeterred. I’m sure there’s some sort of message here but instead of engaging I close out without a response.
Not five seconds go by before a text pings.
Joel: You’re still up. What are you doing?
Crap, I forgot Instagram shows when the other person has read the message. Rookie mistake. I laugh a little at the way I worked a sports reference in and then groan because I just laughed out loud in my quiet apartment. Christian’s been asleep for hours after the longest no nap day in history.
Me: Writing. Congrats on the game.
Joel: Thanks. Tell me a bedtime story, master storyteller, I’m tired as fuck but buses were not meant for tall people.
Me: Once upon a time there was a very tall boy…
Joel: Man, sweetheart. Tall man.
