Page 6 of The Fadeaway
“Your ego got so big you forgot how to put in the effort to ask a girl out the right way.”
“Oh, shiiit.” Nathan covers his mouth, but it doesn’t hide the huge ass grin on his face.
“I mean, did you put any thought into it at all or did you just wing it and expect her to fall at your feet?”
Nathan doubles over with laughter. Glad he’s amused.
Regarding me seriously, Michelle’s voice is full of sympathy. “Not every girl is a lying, backstabbing, no good cu–”
“Alright, I think it’s time for you to go,” I say, screw my eyelids shut and hope I’ve cut off her rant for good. The fact that my baby sister knows just how badly relationships can blow up in your face is all on me. But at least it doesn’t seem to have made her any less of a romantic.
She laughs softly and I open my eyes and sigh in relief as she heads toward the door. Thank God. “I hope your bruised ego won’t affect the game this weekend,” she adds, waves, and disappears.
“She has a point,” Nathan says. “I mean, when’s the last time someone made you do more than ask nicely before they were volunteering to bounce on your penis?”
“Work for it,” I say, mostly to myself. Sadly, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me. Damn. Well, challenge accepted. I mean, honestly, how hard could it be to convince a girl Iknowalready wants me, to go out with me?
3
Joel
Present Day
The soundof an incoming text is my second alarm of the day. The first came five minutes ago when Z pounded on every door of our house.
The second, though, always comes precisely at five thirty in the form of a text. Specifically, a meme. Nathan loves them. Hand to God the guy sends me like ten a day. He must spend a good portion of his free time combing through Imgur to find the best ones. They’re funny as shit so I don’t tell him to stop even though ten texts a day from another dude is a bit much.
Slide my finger over the screen and tap on the text. Squinting through the bright light of my phone, I kick off the blanket and prop a hand behind my head. The meme reads “How do I sleep at night knowing I’m an asshole?” The white words are on a plain black background. Disappointment flickers because I prefer funny pictures to a wall of text, but I keep reading anyway. “Butt-ass naked with the fan on.”
This earns a gruff chuckle and I snap a picture of my junk, angled so the black fan beside my bed is visible. Dude knows me too well. I hit send and jump out of bed. Pull on boxer briefs, shorts, and a shirt. I brush my teeth while I piss – multitasking like a pro. Once I’ve finished in the bathroom, I grab socks and shoes and pad downstairs. The rest of the guys are already in the kitchen eating breakfast. Z is the only one that’s sitting. His big frame is seated at the dining room table with a plate and glass in front of him – using manners the rest of us reserve for mixed company. By some unspoken agreement we take turns making breakfast and by the slightly burnt toast splayed out on the counter with various condiments – butter, jelly, Nutella, and peanut butter, I know this is Wes’ doing.
“Breakfast is served,” Wes says as he pulls four more slices of blackened bread out of the toaster and drops them on the counter. Then he grabs a hand full of butter knives out of our silverware drawer and sets them beside it.
“Coming to practice today?” I ask, and daggers are shot in my direction from everyone but the man I’m talking to.
A grunt and head nod are my answer. After a season-ending injury, the senior point man just recently started coming back to practice. It’s damn good to have him back, if only on the sidelines. Not the same without him on the court with us, though.
I pull on my socks and shoes, then grab a cup and fill it with water. Dump a scoop of protein powder in it and mix with a knife because that’s what’s out on the counter for the toast.
I raise the cup to my mouth just as Nathan steps beside me, grabbing another piece of toast as he shoves what’s left of his last piece in his mouth.
“Dude, don’t you know every time you send a dick pic it shrinks by an eighth of an inch?” he says, mouth still full. Then he proceeds to slap my junk. I groan instinctively before the pain even registers. Spill my drink down my shirt and onto the floor. “That’s for the visual of your small prick I can’t get out of my head.”
“Not cool,” I grit out. “So not cool.”
I cup my balls through my shorts and give them a protective squeeze. “The opportunity was too good, man. And if my dick is small then yours is microscopic.”
“Time to go,” Z says as he stands and takes his dirty dishes to the sink.
I grab two pieces of dry toast for the walk over and guzzle what’s left of my protein drink. Wipe the back of my hand over my mouth and follow the boys out the door.
It’s quiet out. Early, dark, and cold. We move at a clip across the street to Ray Fieldhouse where we practice, workout, and play games. It’s my favorite place on all of campus. The fact that it doesn’t have my last name plastered all over it is a definite bonus.
Might be a new semester, but we’re deep in the season. Final Four is less than two months away and everyone is feeling the pressure and excitement. Coach Daniels doesn’t need to yell at us about being lazy or sloppy, although he does, because we’re as hard on ourselves as he is. We want this. Maybe more than ever now that we’ve seen Wes go out with an injury.
We practice for two hours before classes and then most evenings we’re back in the gym for workouts or drills. We’ve got a big game on Sunday, so today’s practice is particularly grueling. Shooting drills, one-on-one maneuvers, full-court press scrimmage, conditioning, and then more shooting drills. By the time we’re done I’m almost looking forward to class just so I can sit and relax.
Walking into the locker room for a quick shower before I head out, I pause as Coach yells out from his open office door, “Moreno, see me before you leave.”
