Long Shot (Hoops 1)

“I didn’t hear you,” he says. But the gun is already gone, and he lowers himself on top of me, his elbow on one side of my head and the gun on the other. His dick is hard against my entrance, a hammer poised to strike a nail. “This cock or mine?”

I open my eyes and look right at him. The cruel mouth, the lawless soul, the beauty God wasted on this animal. I want him to see my pain and the refusal I can’t voice while he dangles violence over me. I want him to see the hatred in my eyes when he takes this from me. In this awful moment, it’s the only brave thing I can do.

“Yours.”

It starts as a sharp pain that dulls with every thrust. I’m dry and unready, and he is thick and aroused. He tunnels in and out of me, a raw passage for his lust. He’s a ravenous beast, biting my nipples until I cry. He hurts me until I’m dizzy—he feeds on my whimpers. He stiffens, emptying a virulent stream into my body.

I want to hide behind my shame, behind my closed eyelids, but he jerks my chin and holds my stare long enough to make sure I know who’s inside of me. He’s rotten, and the golden façade is gone. He swipes at the wetness on my cheeks and shoves his thumb in my mouth so I taste my own tears.

Even after he rolls off and walks away, I still feel him. I fear I always will. His cum leaks out, a trickle of violence that scalds the vellum-thin skin inside my thighs. At the bathroom door, his eyes maraud my body, studying the bites and bruises. He looks at me like he’s the conqueror and I am his scorched earth.

20

August

It’s my first surgery.

I’ve been balling most of my life and this isn’t my first injury, but it was my first time under the knife. The pain is being managed with medication, but I don’t want to become too dependent. I take less than I should, and my leg hurts like hell. It’s been three days, and I’m finally home. At my real home here in Maryland, not the empty condo in San Diego. If I have to rehab the entire off-season, I want to do it surrounded by the people I love and in the place that’s most familiar to me.

We’re at least six weeks away from physical therapy. This first chapter is all about keeping weight off the leg, letting time and titanium do the healing. That means being more sedentary than I have been since I could only crawl. It’s driving me crazy and leaving me too much time to think. Too much time to dream.

I dreamt of Iris last night. We were by the water, surrounded by trees, and the sun was high. The sky was an explosion of color, vivid, vibrant just before sunset.

We were happy.

How can I dream about Iris when, in a roundabout way, she’s the reason I’m here? I’m flat on my back, staring at the same spackled ceiling I fell asleep under when I was ten years old. And just like then, my mom stands at the door, ready to take care of me.

“You hungry?” she asks, walking in to fluff the pillows behind my head. “I can make those crab cakes you like so much.”

“Nah.” I shift my left leg on the bed and the right one on the small platform that elevates and stabilizes it.

“You need to eat,” Jared says from the door. He was an athlete in high school and still carries traces of a baller’s swagger, though it’s usually hidden beneath a suit these days.

“Okay,” I say, more to get my mother out of the room so I can talk to Jared than because I’m hungry. “Your famous crab cakes would be great, Mom.”

Her face lights up. She’s felt helpless over the last few days, like she wasn’t doing enough. Laid up and barely able to leave this damn bed for the next few weeks, I feel helpless, too. I wish making me feel useful again was as easy.

I study the walls, still plastered with childhood heroes, the idols who shaped my game: Jordan, Magic, Kareem, Kobe. I’ve been staving off depression ever since I hit the floor, and the thought of Kobe Bryant and the Lakers makes me think of the first night I met Iris.

“What’s the league saying about Caleb?” I ask Jared, balling my fists on the bed to contain my anger. “They rule it dirty?”

Jared grimaces, pulls a chair beside my bed, and flips it around to straddle. He rests his crossed arms on the back. “Everybody knows it was a dirty play,” Jared

says. “But his dad is a Hall of Famer, part-owner of a team, and a front office executive. That’s a lot of power and influence. It’ll always be hard to make shit stick to Caleb even in a shit storm.”

“Are you kidding me?” I point to my leg. “I’m missing the end of this season and part of the next because of what he did. I knew he wasn’t the saint everyone thinks he is, but even I didn’t know how low he’d go.”

“What’s up with you and Caleb anyway?” Jared tips his head, his look probing. “I mean, I knew you were never fans of each other throughout college, but it seems to have gotten worse since you guys turned pro.”

Jared is one of the best agents in sports. If we hadn’t needed to keep our family connection on the low, there’s no way I would have chosen Lloyd as my agent over him. Part of what makes Jared so good is his BS detector. He sees through bullshit excuses and lies from a mile away, but there’s no way I’m telling him I jeopardized my career over a girl, much less one I barely know.

“Same old shit, I guess. Just higher stakes.” I shrug. “We’ve been going at it for years. You know that.”

“You sure that’s all there is to it?” Jared asks. “He doesn’t live far away from here. You rehabbing at home doesn’t have anything to do with him, does it?”

Maybe subconsciously I did stay here with the hope of running into Iris, but I won’t make it happen. If our paths are supposed to cross again, they will. I have other things I want to accomplish while I’m sidelined.

“We need to talk about Elevation.” I’m hoping the abrupt change of subject will pull my stepbrother away from talk of Caleb. Thinking of her with him makes my head hurt worse than my leg does.