“Whatever you need, get it, and get out of there,” Coach says, snapping me back into the moment. “Get your ass back to the hotel. Mannard will bench you for breaking curfew, even before the National Championship. Don’t get too big for your breeches.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
Between Coach’s take-no-shit leadership and my stepfather’s military background, the sirs and ma’ams come naturally. Discipline and respect were non-negotiable in both their regimes.
“I need to go,” Coach says. “Doctor’s coming.”
“Keep me posted.”
“I will.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “You know I’ll be at the game tomorrow if there’s any way it’s humanly possible. I just need to make sure Delores is okay. She’s the only reason I would miss it. I’m proud of you, West.”
“I know. Thanks, Coach.” Emotion scorches my throat, and I struggle to hold my shit together. My dad’s birthday, the pressure of tomorrow’s game, and now Delores in the hospital—I’m staggering under the cumulative weight of this day, of all these things, but I make sure none of it makes it into my voice when I speak again. Coach’s got enough to worry about without thinking I’m not ready for tomorrow. “Do whatever you need to. Delores comes first.”
“I hope to see you tomorrow,” he continues gruffly. “You shoot the damn lights out of that place.”
“Yes, sir. I plan to. Call me when you know something.”
I don’t even bother finding the server or asking for the check. Instead, I leave a twenty on the table, more than enough to cover my tepid ginger ale. I have another few hours to kill before curfew, but if Coach isn’t coming to ease my nerves, then I may as well head back to the hotel. I’ll try to slip in without running into my teammates.
I’m almost at the door when an outburst from the far end of the bar stops me.
“Bullshit!” a husky, feminine voice booms. “You know good and damn well that’s a shit call.”
Just shy of the threshold, I turn to see the woman who’s cussing like a sailor. Curves punctuate her lean, tight body: the indentation of her waist in a fitted T-shirt, the rounded hips poured into her jeans. She jumps from her stool and leans forward, her body taut with outrage, her fists balled on the bar, and her eyes narrowed at the flat screen. She must be a good seven inches over five feet. A guy my height gets used to towering over everyone else, but I like a woman with a little height. Her hair, dark and dense as midnight, is an adventure, roaming wild and untamed around her face in every direction, drifting past her shoulders. She looks pissed, her wide, full mouth tight, and the sleek line of her jaw bunched.
The beautiful face paired with all that attitude has me intrigued. Even if I’m not getting laid tonight, I can at least get distracted from the pressure that’s been crushing me all day. Hell, crushing me for the last few weeks, if I’m honest. I want to shake off the melancholy thoughts my father’s death always wrap around me—thoughts of what we missed. What we lost. Seeing her all fired up and cussing at the television, swearing at the refs, lightens some of the load I’ve been carrying. I find myself walking straight toward the one thing that has penetrated the thick wall of tension surrounding me since we advanced to the NCAA championship a few days ago.
“Asshole,” she mutters, settling her denim-clad ass back onto the barstool. “No way that was a flagrant foul.”
I take the empty stool beside her, glancing up at the screen replaying the last sequence. “Actually, I’m pretty sure that was a flagrant foul.” I grab a fistful of nuts from the bowl between us.
“You’re either as blind and dumb as the ref,” she says, eyes never leaving the screen, “or you’re trying to pick me up. Either way, I’m not impressed.”
My handful of nuts freezes halfway to my mouth. I have a shot at college player of the year, have been big man on campus for four years, and was on ESPN’s Plays of the Week by tenth grade. No girl has shot me down since middle school, but I never shy away from a challenge.
“Just making conversation.” I shrug and swing my knees around to face her. “Though if you want to be picked up, I might be able to accommodate.”
She finally deigns to look at me. Her heart-shaped face is arresting, a contrast of fierce and delicate. She has high cheekbones and dark brows that slash over a button nose and hazel eyes. Hazel is too flat a word to describe all the shades of green and brown and gold. I’ve never seen eyes quite like these. Several colors at once. Several things at once. I wonder if the girl behind them is as multi-dimensional.
“I wouldn’t want to wear you out before your big game tomorrow.” The corners of her lips pinch like she’s trying her best not to laugh at me.
That gives me pause. So she knows who I am. That would usually work in my favor, but I have a feeling she’s not your run-of-the-mill ball groupie. “You’re a fan?”
Unsurprisingly, one brow crooks, and she rolls her eyes before turning her attention back to the game. The bartender approaches, a bottle of liquor in hand.
“What’ll ya have?” He sets the Grey Goose on the bar, toggling a speculative glance between me and the woman ignoring me.
“Could I get a ginger ale, please?”
He smirks, trading out the Goose for a ginger ale he pulls from the fridge under the bar. Filling a glass with the fizzy drink and setting it in front of me, he angles his head to peer under the brim pulled low over my brow.
“August West?” A grin lights his face.
I nod but put my finger to my lips, hoping to quiet him so I can flirt in peace. I don’t feel like signing autographs and being pelted with well wishes. I’m not even in the NBA yet, but ever since our team made the Sweet Sixteen, the media has homed in on me for some reason, elevating my profile and making it harder to remain anonymous.
“I get it.” The bartender nods knowingly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Avoiding the crazy, huh?”
“Something like that.” I look back to the super fangirl, whose attention remains riveted on the screen. “What’s the lady having?”