“A gold star for you,” Molly murmurs, swinging her legs off my shoulders and pushing me back. Her cheeks are flushed a dark pink, and she half-smiles with a strange dose of self-consciousness for someone who was just ordering me to eat her out. “A-pluses all around. Bonus points awarded.”
I laugh. There’s a buzz in my pocket, and as Molly hops off the desk to finagle her pants back on, I reach into my pocket and produce my phone. My shoulders tense at the sight of the message on my screen. Just as fast as I read it, I click back out of it, scared that if I re-read it will make the words more real.
That it will mean the decision I’ve been pushing into the farthest recesses of my mind will finally have to be given some air.
“You look just about as gray as your name,” Molly says, punching me on the shoulder. “Should I have a go then? You can take your turn on the desk?”
She giggles as she pushes me back so I’m ass down on her desk. When her tiny, warm mouth finds the curve of my neck, my phone slips out of my fingers and onto the floor.
CHAPTER TWELVE: GRAY
I sit at the far edge of the bleachers, my thumb running up and down the side of my phone without ever clicking the screen on. I know what awaits me when I absentmindedly turn to Google or glance at Twitter.
GUNDERSON: Are you free for a Zoom meeting sometime tomorrow? We’d like to put a timeline on your coming back.
I can’t say for sure what I’d been expecting from Gunderson’s first message since I left on suspension. I can’t say for sure what I’dwantedthe text to say.
But here it is now, my future laid out before me where all I have to do is take the first step. This is everything I’ve been wanting for so long now. Hell, it’s everything I’ve been wanting since I first played in this high school gym myself.
Shoes squeal across the hardwood floor, and someone yells to pass the ball. I look back up at the gym, the volume on the room suddenly turning all the way up from a full mute. Bates is shuffling around the other side of the court, his neck angry and red as he shouts at the boys to clean up their footwork. At last, he blows a whistle and the drills slow to a halt.
“We’re running suicides again,” he directs the boys with an agitated flick of his wrist. “You’ll either run them ‘til someone throws up, or until someone can finally tell me who benefits most from the Cutthroat Drill. Smith, can you take a minute to work with Baker?”
The young guard looks up at me from across the gym, the embarrassment on his face playing out in bright shades of red and pink. He does as he’s told and trots over to me. I shake my head to clear it, pocketing my phone again and praying for the ability to fully dive into this and distract myself.
“Struggling during Cutthroat, huh?”
Baker nods, eyes trained on the ground as he dribbles the ball once, twice, three times.
“Brady shamed me out there,” he mumbles. “He’s freaking huge, coach. How am I supposed to compete with that? I can’t help that my mom and dad are both under six foot. I can’t help—”
“But make excuses?” I raise an eyebrow. Baker finally looks up at me, the tips of his ears turning red again. I motion for him to pass me the ball.
Baker tosses it my way and I catch it at my chest. I dribble it over to the free hoop and he trails after me, shuffling his feet across the hardwood.
“Brady is big,” I agree with him. “But take it from someone who gets askedhow the weather is up thereevery time I meet someone new: you can use his height to your advantage. He’s big, so he’s slower. You’re short, so you’re faster.”
I spin on my heels to face Baker again, faking quickly left and then right before darting around him and sinking the ball in through the hoop. His eyes widen, and the red on his ears fades at least one shade. I toss the ball back to him.
“Run your steps over and over again,” I instruct him. “You’ve got those shorter legs, and you can use your smaller stance to help your fakes go quicker and choppier. Brady will be so slow following your fake that he’ll never be able to keep up with the real thing. You’ve just got to perfect that move, run it until Dream You is doing it in his sleep, and he won’t be able to catch onto the ruse. Try it out. Don’t rush for the hoop behind me, just practice the left-right.”
Baker chews on his lip as he widens his stance and glances back up at me. I nod, encouraging him before he dribbles the ball and lunges left, then right.
“That’s it.” I clap twice. “You can do it faster though. Try again.”
He lunges left, then right.
“Don’t look down at the ball so much,” I instruct. “Look him in the eyes, and don’t give away your lie.”
Left, then right.
“Come on, man. Don’t give anything away.” This time I get into position myself, swatting at the ball when Baker glances down too many times. “Look at me, kid.”
Left, then right.
“Where ya gonna go? When are you going to cut around me? When can—”
My breath catches. Baker has swung past me, darting off toward the hoop. He won’t get there in time, not if I don’t let him. After all, I’m the former pro and the six-foot-four basketball God. Still, I step back, letting him have this glorious moment. His face lights up as he stretches up off the ground, his tennis shoe leaving the hardwood as he shoots and aims.