Cox grins and holds out a hand for Reed to high-five. “Life’s good when you’re spending it on a yacht in the South Pacific.”
“That sounds pretty incredible right now,” I grumble, thinking of Little Haven’s snowstorm from when I first arrived. I throw back the rest of my drink and slide the empty across the counter, motioning for another.
Cox winces. “I didn’t really think that comment through, Smith. I was sorry to hear about everything that went down with Myers. That guy was always a real dick. You shouldn’t be punished for what we’ve all wanted to do to him at one point or another.”
Bennett and Reed nod as the bartender slides my refill and three beers across the counter for them. I start in on my next drink, eagerly awaiting the numb.
I don’t correct their mistake; they don’t need to know I’m not grieving my suspension, or jealous of their retired positions away from NBA drama. I don’t want to get into the stuff with Molly. All I want is this whiskey, and to talk about literally anything else in the world.
These three are good guys for that mission. NBA players might have a reputation for partying hard or being too cocky, but I always got along with these three. More humble, more low-key, similar small town backstories. There’s always comfort in a small bit of familiarity when you’re in the big city.
Bennett raises an eyebrow. “Gunderson tell you not to come back or something?”
“We’ve got a Zoom meeting later today.” I swirl my drink around my glass. “He wants me back, but we’ve got to tie up all the loose ends.”
“So, you called us to celebrate, then?” Cox blinks at me, expectant.
I guess this figures, right? I haven’t called on these guys in at least a year or two, not since Bennett was traded and Reed and Cox announced retirement. They’re looking for a logical reason I’d call them up when I should be avoiding any interaction that might draw the press—and hanging out with three giants would definitely do that.
The truth is so much sadder. I wasn’t looking for a drinking buddy to commiserate my suspension with or a drinking buddy for a celebration.
I’m just trying to get away from my hometown, away from the girl throwing a party I just spent the past few days helping her set up. Gray Smith is tragic. He’s not focusing on repairing his reputation or taking time to clear his head. He’s spent the entirety of his suspension thrown back in time.
“Sure,” I grunt, downing the rest of this second drink. “We’re here to celebrate.”
Cox grins and his shoulders ease—I know immediately that the three of them were waiting for me to give them that all clear. They didn’t know if this was going to be the kind of night where they have to talk me down from calling a journalist with a PR bombshell on Gunderson.
“How you been spending the downtime?” Cox asks. “If you still have a few days, you can come out on my boat and take a ride. We’re tied up off Tybee right now. You can get some of that sun before you have to go back to Jack Frost’s Armpit.”
I manage a weak smile at that.
Bennett shakes his head in disagreement. “I’ve been hearing rumors from my boys that other teams are feeling your vibe right now. Myers has always been a dick, and even though the Liberty had to suspend you, there are other teams that will be waiting with open arms. If I were you, I’d ditch the yacht and come meet my guy with the Hawks. I can call Tim right now.”
A lump has formed in my throat while Bennett was talking. I put my glass to my lips to wash it down before I realize I already emptied it.
“I’ve stayed on the court,” I assure them. “I mean, I’ve only been helping with the local high school team, but at least it’s keeping me sharp.”
Reed elbows Cox and smiles. “I bet they freaked when you rolled up with your baller ass haircut and shit. Probably put out a banner for their hometown hero.”
There’s a twinge at the top of my chest, where the lump has slid down my throat to settle as a heavy weight.
There wasn’t a banner at Little Haven High, but I guess I did still get a pretty nice welcoming. The boys on the team were excited to have me. Bates was downright enthusiastic, or at least, as enthusiastic as one of those focused, sweaty coach types can be when they’re not cussing out a referee.
I shrug and slide my glass back across the counter. “My hometown is barely a speck on the map. A banner from them would feel the same as getting a half-smile from Gunderson.”
Bennett balks at that and eyes the other guys. “Bro, I came back to play for the Hawks because I grew up in Surrency. Population two-hundred-three. When I came back to run a clinic this summer, it felt like they’d named me king.”
I run my hands through the back of my hair, raking my fingers down my scalp until it hurts a little. I smirk, letting myself fall back into the easy rhythm of hanging out with players my age. “All that time in the NBA and you’re still hillbilly stock at heart, Bennett?”
Bennett just grins and shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Big fish in a small pond.” The words come out of me sounding deflated. It’s the phrase I repeated to myself a hundred thousand times before now. The sentiment that pushed me to leave Little Haven, to keep pressing toward a higher goal. I had to prove I was the big fish wherever I went.
“You were the reason I liked swimming in the damn pond in the first place.”
The vein at the side of my neck twitches as I picture Molly flinging those words at me in the Little Haven lobby.
Bennett grabs Cox’s beer—Cox objects, but not enough to stop Bennett—and he downs the end in one swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. He shrugs again and crosses his arms.