Page 54 of Sweet Disaster
Chapter 17
Gavin
As with any sport, basketball can be a dangerous game and the longer you play, the more likely you’ll have an injury. The longevity of a career depends greatly on not only the player’s skills, but their luck in avoiding potentially career-ending injuries.
Recently, my brother’s teammate, Carver Edwards, was seriously injured during the NCAA tournament, knocking him out of the game and the team out of the finals. According to Christian’s eye-witness account, and based on what I saw from the news clips and sports articles, Carver went up for a shot and got elbowed, breaking his nose and knocking out a tooth. But it didn’t prevent him from going pro.
That’s the worst thing that can happen. Shortly before you’re able to realize your dreams, they’re shattered with a career-ending injury.
Lucky for me, I’ve avoided series injuries thus far. A few minor sprains and a little wear-and-tear, but nothing notable. It hasn’t come easy, though, playing against huge European giants, many from the Eastern European countries like Croatia and Norway. They are literally built like Vikings. My Italian teammates aren’t as physically fierce, but can still be strong opposition on the court. My advantage is that I’m young and built, but I still need to give one hundred and ten percent effort when I play. It’s concentration and commitment, nothing like high school.
Tonight’s game on the road is against theRoma Royalsand we’re playing in an indoor sports arena that was originally built for the 1960 Summer Olympics. The seating capacity is small, but we don’t draw the same type of crowds like in the NBA. We typically average between three-thousand and fifty-five hundred per game, depending on the city. When we travel to the Eastern European cities, that’s where we see the largest crowds.
The team is excited for the rematch tonight against Rome, having lost our last game to them. We just finished our pre-game warm-ups and drills and are now chilling in the locker room, getting rub-downs, icing swollen knees and shooting the breeze while we wait for the coaching staff pep talks.
Sadly, since I don’t speak Italian all that well, I only understand a small portion of the speeches. There is an English-speaking coach who translates as much as possible, but it’s still in broken English, making it hard to suss out all the specifics.
My stomach is a knotted pretzel of nerves tonight. Kady’s out in the crowd and this is the first time I’ve had anyone I know watch me play pro-ball in Italy. When I was in high school my mom and relatives would be there to cheer me and Christian on when they were available. But over here in the European league, all my VIP visitor passes have gone unused because I had no friends or family to give them to.
But that changed tonight.
When I asked Kady if she’d stay another day in Rome and come watch the game, she seemed genuinely excited by the invite. She did grumble, however, about having to watch “the most boring sport outside of golf and bowling.” After that sarcastic outburst, it was an all-out tickle war, which I won hands down. I punished her by finding the perfect spot between her ribs for offending my livelihood.
I’m sitting on the bench, removing my pads when I’m startled by a large, sweaty palm that lands hard on top of my thigh. My head swivels to see Gerardo MonteVilla taking a seat next to me, his eyes narrowed to a squint.
His English is stilted, but easily understood. “You wear big grin. Why?”
I shrug and bend down to remove a knee pad, ridding my face of my loopy smile that I wore thinking about Kady, hoping to evade the question and potential interrogation.
Gerardo’s hand moves to grip my shoulder and he pulls me back upright, staring at me with the scrutiny of a mind-reader.
“Ah,” he announces, like he’s just figured out an intricate puzzle. “I see.”
I nudge his hand off my shoulder and glare back at him. “You see nothing.”
“Hot pussy make American boy happy. Very nice.” He grins broadly.
Asshole.
Gerardo’s a nice enough guy. Good teammates. Lumbering and large and the hairiest motherfucker I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I roll my eyes, returning my attention to my pad removal. “Whatever man. I’m just in a good mood.”
In my peripheral vision, I see him begin taping up his ankles, using the black sports tape the trainers provide. I’d already wrapped mine up before practice. It keeps the likelihood of rolling an ankle down to a minimum, but doesn’t prevent them entirely.
He hums. “No denial. Very interesting. Must be good pussy.”
At this, I’m close to losing my patience, my tolerance quickly evaporating. Gerado has no idea that I’m sleeping with Kady or know who she is, but the fact that he’s commenting about generalized pussy is enough to irritate me. Kady has come to mean a lot to me and I certainly don’t think of her in his words as just hot pussy.
“Shut it, G. She’s not just some piece of ass.”
My arm stings with pain where he jabs me with his finger. “Ow. Dufuq?”
Gerardo’s loud, booming laugh echoes off the old metal lockers, and garners the attention from my other teammates who are now looking on with curiosity.
“Who is she, then? Violetta? I saw her the other night,” he waggles his brows. “She seems very taken with you still.”
His hand makes the gesture of a claw and he roars like an animal, insinuating her cougar status. He and some of the other guys know all about Vi and her conquests and her desire to fuck all the players on the team. She’s even gone after some of the married ones.
