“Thanks, Rook,” he says and walks away.
By the time I make it into the gym, I’m struggling with seven bags, none of them mine. I drop them unceremoniously by the benches and jerk the sweatshirt over my head to join my teammates for practice.
“I wondered what was taking you so long,” Kenan says, bouncing the ball in a dribbling drill.
“So are you, like, hazing me or something?” I try to keep my voice light, but maybe I do resent that stunt a little.
Kenan stops dribbling to look me in the eye. “Everybody knows what you can do, Rook. We may be vets, but Deck is building this team around you. You’re young, but you’re the franchise player. We get that,” he says quietly. “But when you’re in the trenches with somebody, you don’t just need to know what they can do. You need to know who they are. I wanna know more about your character than I do about your game right now.”
His penetrating stare assesses me. “So yeah, you’ll carry bags for vets from time to time. Nothing wrong with staying humble before all the rings start rolling in.”
“It’s the least I can do,” I grudgingly concede, offering the smallest grin.
“Count yourself lucky.” He takes a shot that’s nothing but net. “They made me clean jock straps.”
“Shit.” I twist my face in disgust. “Ball sweat?”
“Ball sweat.”
Give me bags any day.
9
August
Life doesn’t always deliver on its promises, and some dreams taste sweetest before they come true.
Such is my NBA career so far. It’s February, halfway through my rookie season, and we have the sub-five hundred year you’d expect from an expansion team. No way we’ll win half our games at the rate we’re going. Kenan keeps reminding me we’re just starting out and to be patient.
Another thing that’s overrated? The all-you-can-fuck pussy buffet. I admit I’ve taken advantage of it. Had a threesome or six. Hell, I was with four girls at once a few weeks ago. I think one chick just sucked my thumb because the other three had all the vital bases covered. It’s a rite of passage for most professional athletes, the overindulged dick. Wilt Chamberlain claimed he slept with twenty thousand women. I just have to wonder did it get old this quickly? Did he lie in bed some nights, a woman on each side, and feel utterly alone? Did he think about one particular girl while he was fucking all the others?
’Cause that’s my present dilemma.
Caleb and I have only met on court once this season. It was my best individual performance so far because our mutual dislike brings out my best play. It’s a team sport, though, and his team, my hometown Stingers, had a better night and are the better team. We lost in overtime by two points.
Caleb and I barely spoke that night. I forced myself to shake his hand before leaving the court because Coach Kirby would ream my ass for bad sportsmanship if I didn’t, but I couldn’t look him in the eye. I would have lost my shit if I’d seen his smug satisfaction. He’s on the team I wanted to play for in my hometown. He’s got the girl I can’t get out of my head. News travels fast on the NBA circuit, and a few months ago, the golden boy having a baby was all anyone wanted to talk about.
Every time I think of them having a kid, building a life together, I want to punch a hole through the wall.