Long Shot (Hoops 1)

“What the hell?” Kenan demands, his nose now at mine. “You trying to get suspended for the next game? Keep your shit together, Rook.”

Caleb looks over the shoulder of a teammate, his eyes baleful and malevolent. Indignation drains out of me every second I hold his stare. I glance from him to the scoreboard and back, my smirk telling him without words that he may go home with Iris, but it’s as a loser who got his ass handed to him on the court. I made him my highlight reel bitch, and she witnessed every second of it.

Fuck that in the ass, you pussy son of a bitch.

I turn away, as disgusted with myself as I am with him. I give Kenan a curt nod, letting him know I have my emotions on lock again. With only a minute left in the game, we’re almost home free. In the last time-out huddle, Decker stands behind the bench.

“Game’s over, Coach,” he says, his eyes trained on me. “Do we need August out there? It’s sewn up, right?”

Coach Kemp looks at me speculatively. “It’s true, West. Why don’t you sit out this last—”

“No,” I cut in, looking from him to Decker and back again. “Let me finish.”

I want to be out there when the buzzer goes off. I want that asshole to shake my hand like a good little golden boy when this is over or risk everyone seeing him for the whiny little bitch he is.

“Up to you,” Decker says, disappointment flickering over his expression before he clears it. “But I’d prefer you sit out.”

I don’t wait for them to reconsider. I leave the huddle and walk onto the floor.

It’s our final possession, and I’ve got the ball. Me and Caleb, one on one. I fake left. He dives. I turn right. I’m gone. Dodging defenders, in the paint, penetrating to the goal. I leap and scoop the ball in. I’m high. Caleb’s below, and our eyes connect.

Nail in your coffin, motherfucker.

When I come down, Caleb’s still standing there. Our bodies collide. I plummet to the floor, my leg twisting awkwardly when I land.

White-hot pain lances through my leg, and my vision goes black around the edges.

The team trainer is immediately at my side and tells me not to move. I try to sit up, but my head swims from the pain.

“Shit,” I mutter, collapsing back onto the court.

“He said don’t move,” Decker orders from my right, his furrowed brows and tightly held lips a map of concern. “And don’t look.”

Don’t look? What is there to see?

I glance around the tight circle of grim-faced players surrounding me. The emotions warring on their faces range from horror to pain to pity.

My heart batters my chest, not because of the pain, though it’s excruciating, but because of the pity in their eyes. So few people can play at this level, and we’re an elite fraternity of sorts. We’ve all worked unimaginably hard for most of our lives to get here, and it can all disappear in an instant. One bad fall can ruin a career.

I need to see my leg.

They bring a stretcher, and I shake my head. No way I’m going out like that. Even if I have to hobble off the court, I want to go under my own steam.

I sit up to tell them so and another wave of dizziness overtakes me, but not because of the pain. Because of what I see.

The large bone in my right leg protrudes through the skin. Nausea roils in my stomach at the gruesome sight. This isn’t a strain or a tear or something you bounce back from easily. It’s a break, and recovery will take incredible effort and time, if it can be accomplished at all.

Through a haze of mind-numbing pain, my first memory of handling a ball rises up as they lift and strap me to the stretcher. I’m in the backyard and barely able to hold onto the ball because my hands are so small. Perched on my father’s shoulders, and with his great height, I can just reach the goal and drop the ball through the net. He and my mother cheer, and even at that age, the approval is a warm rush I hold close and immediately want more of.

Will a crowd ever roar for me again?

It’s not our home crowd, but everyone cheers as I’m hoisted on the stretcher and taken toward the locker room. Every face I pass shows sympathy, even the Stingers’ players. When I pass Caleb, though, a black satisfaction darkens his blue eyes. There’s retribution in the curl of his lip.

The defending player is supposed to give the player with the ball room to land. Caleb didn’t do that. It was a dirty play. No reasonably informed person watching what just happened would say otherwise.

His scorn and cruelty cover me under the blinding lights and flashing cameras, and I wonder if Iris is still here. If she saw the play. Caleb did this to warn me, but I hope Iris takes it as a warning, too.

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