King of the Court

I met her scowl with one of my own, but not for the reasons she probably thinks.

I was confused—no, utterly dumbstruck by her as soon as I slid out of my car and met her gaze.

My stomach squeezed tight as she stared on, not shying away, not blushing bashfully like I expected her to. She stared right at me as every hair on my body stood up, taking notice of her.

Her, my body screamed.

HER.

Fuck. Am I an idiot for not asking for her name? Her number? Something?

What if I never meet someone who elicits that response again?

It’s not an outlandish concern. It’s been years since I’ve felt that way about a woman—even counting Shelby. God, that’s depressing to realize.

When I eventually turn off the highway and head down a long winding dirt road, it takes us another fifteen minutes to arrive at Coach Dalton’s hideaway, and my head is no longer back with the blonde. I’m wondering what Coach has in store for us. Sequestering us here in the middle of nowhere isn’t exactly common practice. I played in the last Olympic Games and we trained at Lebron’s place in Miami for a few weeks before heading to Rio. Everyone stayed in rentals or hotels.

“This feels like summer camp,” Anthony notes, pointing to the small modern cabins interspersed among the trees.

“You went to summer camp?”

“Oh sure. My mom dropped me off every year on her way to a yoga retreat.”

I chuckle, knowing he’s full of shit. Anthony and I share a similar story—no story-book childhoods for us and no family to speak of now. My mom died when I was young and I’ve fully cut ties with my dad. I’ve known for a long time that he was a user. Someone who’ll suck the life right out of you if you let him. Yesterday, I got a call from my agent asking me why I was selling my old basketball memorabilia online. When I told him I wasn’t, he sent me the link to the website. The usual stuff was listed, some signed game balls and NBA rookie cards, but alongside those were trophies from my youth basketball league tournaments, cheap medals, grainy childhood photos with signatures my dad must have forged. Items I didn’t even know he had. Items I would have liked to keep if he’d offered them to me.

I could pursue legal action against my father, but it’s not a road I’m comfortable going down. I had my agent contact the site so they’d remove the products knowing full well my dad would only take the crap elsewhere. He left me two voicemails after my win the other night. One of them was sugarcoated and sweet, all about how my “old man” is so proud of me; the other was straight to the point. I need money, rent’s due any day now. Apparently the stipend my financial managers send him every month isn’t enough anymore.

“Think they’ll have us staying in those cabins?” Anthony asks, craning his head to get a good look at the one we just passed.

“Who the hell knows. You know how Coach Dalton is.”

Jerry Dalton is an NBA legend with more wins under his belt than any other coach in history. He’s also led the U.S. men’s Olympic basketball team to four gold medals, and this year, he wants to make that five. He has more sway than any other coach I’ve worked with, as evidenced by the fact that I’m here in the woods right now.

When we first got word that he wanted us in Texas for a few weeks before the Games, we all rolled our eyes. We’re the best of the best—the top twelve professional players from the United States. We could show up in Tokyo tomorrow, tie our hands behind our backs, cover our eyes with a blindfold, and still dominate the playing field, but Coach Dalton has it in his mind that we need practice and privacy, so that’s what we’ll get.

This land is his, and he must own a lot of it. Most of the acreage is still covered in dense forest, but the cleared area at the end of the winding road boasts quite a few buildings. The assistant who gives us a tour of the place explains that there’s a main house, a large indoor basketball complex with three regulation-sized courts, a training facility where the physical therapists and nutritionists are housed, a few outdoor practice courts, and then our individual cabins. The assistant also gives us our cabin assignments. There’s not enough space for everyone to have their own. Some players are bringing family with them, so they get first dibs. I don’t have a family, but I have seniority. Anthony doesn’t; he’s bunking with Carmelo Taylor, and he’s got my deepest sympathies.

“Oh you feel bad for me?” Anthony taunts. “Good, then switch. I’ll take your cabin.”