Page 12 of Most Valuable Players
He isn’t wrong.
An hour later, I’m in hell. Practice is shit. Shaw has talent, but he’s all over the fucking place, trying to prove his worth by taking risky shots and hogging the ball. My nerves are shot. I can’t do a damn thing but wait for this boot to come off.
“Reynolds, my office,” Coach calls to the sideline when he’s done giving orders for the guys to work on shooting drills.
I take my time, already knowing what he’s going to say.
He’s sitting behind his desk, and though I’ve seen him in his office before, it always strikes me how weird he looks perched upright like he’s working a nine-to-five desk job. Some men just weren’t meant for that kind of life, and coach falls squarely in that category. “Come on in, son. Have a seat.”
I take the old chair in front of his desk. Thing looks like it’s been here since the university opened in the fifties.
“How’s the foot? Cast comes off in two weeks?”
“Yes, sir. I’m anxious to get back on the floor.”
“And we’re anxious to have you back, but the trainers say you may not be back fully for another two to four weeks after the boot comes off. We have the exhibition in two weeks and then our first game the week after. I know it isn’t what you want, but have you considered a medical red shirt?”
I grind my back teeth to keep from speaking exactly what I’m thinking. Even knowing this was what he was going to say, it still pisses me off. Hell no, I don’t want to redshirt my senior year. Sure, I take the redshirt and I’m still eligible to play an extra year. We get five years to play four seasons, but next year Z will be gone. I’ll be done with my degree. It’s an option. But it isn’t one I’m willing to take.
“I’ll be ready. Whatever it takes.”
He nods. “Once you step out onto that floor, it gets a hell of a lot harder to take it back. You’re sure about this? You can take some time and talk to your folks about it.”
Right, like they give two shits about my ball career.
“Positive.”
I can tell he’s torn. He wants me to play and wants me to take the year to heal properly. I get it. I do. It’s risky, but I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to be ready to go and to lead my team to a national championship. We were so close last year. Top four in the nation is good. Most people would be happy with that.
I’m not most people, and I want that national title.
5
BLAIR
Three more statistics classes pass in the same fashion. I sit, feverishly taking notes, as Wes sits in the back sleeping. Today I’ve given up the pretense of stellar note taking. My scribbles don’t even make sense to me as I write them. It’s more about keeping my hands busy and my attention trained forward.
I’m doodling hearts and flowers along the margin of my notepad when Professor O’Sean’s monotone stops. The lack of noise is deafening.
“Mr. Reynolds,” Professor O’Sean’s voice booms off the walls of the room, and every person in the room, including me, duck and pray for invisibility to avoid being the next victim of public shaming in the form of being called on in class.
I keep my head low and peek up to the top row just in time to see Joel elbow Wes. Slowly, he lifts the hat and sits straighter.
“Mr. Reynolds, can you tell the class the probability of the example on the screen?”
I wince for him. Despite my glee that he’s been caught sleeping, no one deserves to be grilled in front of the entire class.
“The probability is three-eights. It’s a binomial distribution with a sample space size two to the third equaling eight. Would you like me to list the events?”
My mouth gapes. Wes wears an arrogant smile and boyish charm that makes the guys in class laugh and the girls swoon. Professor O’Sean has a begrudging look as he shakes his head to indicate the answer is sufficient. I’m inclined to be on his side. How dare Wes sleep through class and still know the answer? Here I am, taking notes and hanging on every word, and I still have no idea if I could have provided more to the answer than the scribblings I’d written down in my notes.
Glance at my neatly printed letters. The collection of all possible outcomes of an experiment is called a sample space. Yeah, that isn’t helpful. All I’ve done is copy the definitions.
Without responding to Wes, Professor O’Sean moves on. At least I wasn’t the only one who assumed the guy sleeping at the back of the class had no idea what was going on.
I dare another peek at the back row, stilling when I find Wes’s gaze on me. He smirks as if mocking me instead of the teacher. My cheeks warm, and I turn quickly and keep my eyes forward for the rest of the class.
“There’ll be another short test in two weeks that will cover the material in chapter three. The midterm is only one month away, and it makes up thirty-five percent of your overall grade. These tests are a taste of what will be on the midterm, so I suggest you prepare for them accordingly. Have a good weekend.”
