King of the Court Page 4

  I look away, down the hall, trying and failing to keep my voice even as I speak. “Come on, Patrick. I’m working.”

  “Are you? The way I see it, you’re making eyes at those basketball players back there. You think one of them will notice you?” He snorts like the idea is absolutely ludicrous. “Don’t hold your breath. You’re no better than the rest of us, Raelynn—trash.”

  He spits when he speaks, the spittle landing on my cheek. His grip tightens on my wrist, stinging my skin and no doubt leaving a mark. The pain tangles with the disgusting feeling of his spit on my face and drives out the last of my good sense.

  I turn back to look at him, jut my chin up, and yank my arm away with all my might. It throws us both off balance. I teeter back against the wall and he stumbles to the side, barely catching himself before he falls over. “You think I don’t know that?” I hiss at him. “You think I have any hope of escaping this place?”

  I did leave once and I thought it’d be for good, and yet here I stand, smelling like grease and coffee grounds, wearing a stained apron and threadbare sneakers. He thinks calling me trash is going to hurt, but I’ve shed any ideas of being good, or bad, or worthy, or worthless a long time ago. I don’t have the time or the luxury to fixate on what I am. I’m too busy just trying to get from one day to the next, and in that way, I’m untouchable. Patrick’s opinion of me doesn’t matter, but there is someone I don’t want looking at me with disgust, and he’s standing at the end of the long hall now, watching Patrick and me.

  I don’t know how long Ben’s been standing there, but I straighten my dress and wipe Patrick’s spit off my face as he starts down the hall toward us.

  Patrick sees him a beat after I do, and he clears his throat and plasters on a big smile.

  “Hey man.” He extends his hand out for Ben. “You enjoyin’ the food? Let me know if I can get you anything. I’m Patrick O’Neal. I own the place.”

  No you don’t, I want to snap. You don’t own shit.

  Ben doesn’t even look at him, much less accept his outstretched hand. His assessing gaze stays focused on me as if waiting for me to gain the courage to meet his stare.

  Patrick glances between us, frowns, and then backs up down the hall, sensing that he’d be better off leaving before Ben turns his attention on him.

  I stay right where I am, leaning against the wall as Ben walks closer to me, passing Patrick. I’m looking back down the hall at Patrick’s retreating back, clenching my jaw to try to get a grip on my emotions.

  “Are you okay?” Ben asks quietly.

  Those three little words scrape against the edge of my resolve.

  I nod and stay silent, keeping my profile to him so he can’t see too much of my face.

  “Has that happened before?”

  What? I want to press. Has what happened before? What did you see? The part where he put his filthy hands on me without my consent? Or the part where he called me trash?

  I can’t get my mouth to work. Coherent words seem to be insurmountable at the moment. I’ve kept a tight lid on my life these last few months. There’s no one I can call to blow off steam. No friends to drink away my sorrows with. Answering Ben’s question and granting him access to me in this way is a horrible idea. Letting him act the part of my white knight will only end badly for me. He’s not intervening because he cares. He probably had to take a piss and now here he is, forced to ask the poor waitress in the roadside diner if she’s okay so he can sleep at night knowing he’s a good guy.

  Embarrassment washes over me, and the sensation is almost crippling. I feel nothing when Patrick calls me names, but knowing Ben might have heard, having him look at me right now, caught in this state of vulnerability is proof that my claims of indifference are bald-faced lies. I might not care what Patrick thinks about me, but I care a whole hell of a lot what Ben might think, and that pisses me off.

  I sniff and finally gain the courage to look at him.

  I plaster on an easy smile, pushing past the tightness in my cheeks.

  “Has what happened before?” I ask, repeating his question, trying to sound carefree. “People bumping into each other in the hallway? Sure, all the time. Did you need something at your table? More water?”

  His cunning eyes narrow and his dark lashes cluster together, emphasizing his sharp-edged beauty. For one, two, three seconds our gazes lock as my breath halts, arrested in my chest. Then slowly, his gaze pointedly drags down to where Patrick left an angry red mark on my wrist.

  I cover it quickly with my hand.

  “Coffee burn,” I lie.

  I have every reason to assume Ben only saw the tail end of my exchange with Patrick. He might not know what really happened, and I’m not going to fill in the blanks for him. The last thing I want is his handsome face contorting with pity for me. Besides, what’s he going to do to help? Threaten Patrick? Beat him up? Mess up those million-dollar hands for a girl he doesn’t even know?

  Yeah right.

  I push off the wall and try to move past him, but he steps smoothly in front of me, ever the agile athlete. I bet he’s good at blocking his opponents on the court.

  “Do you want me to put a stop to it?” he asks simply.

  I stare at his broad chest and mull over his question, wondering why it shocks me into silence, and then I realize it’s twofold. It’s the assured confidence that he knows he could absolutely put a stop to my issues with Patrick if only I gave him permission, mingled with the fact that he’s asking for consent. So many hotheads in this town would love to put on a good show on behalf of a woman if only to act like a Neanderthal. I’ll go kick his ass right now! Let me at him!

  Not Ben.

  He wants to know what I want.

  “It’ll only make it worse,” I murmur.

  He exhales a heavy breath as if he doesn’t like my answer, but he doesn’t push the subject.

  He politely steps aside to let me past, and I scurry away from him like I’m scared he’ll try to block my escape again.

  I inhale deeply once I’m out of the secluded hallway, making a decision right then and there to never put myself in that position with Patrick again. From now on, I’ll just hold my damn pee while I’m at work.

  This is not the life I saw for myself: working two jobs, serving food and cleaning houses, scraping by with hourly pay most people wouldn’t get out of bed for. I’ve never known fatigue like this. I could fall asleep where I stand, but I still need to make it from Nan’s car to my trailer door.

  I sit in the front seat, staring out at nothing in particular.

  Nothing about my life is pretty at the moment. Not the dent in the side of my rented trailer. Not the debris piled up around it. I don’t even live in an official trailer park. I rent this hunk of tin from Sheriff Corbin. He’s parked it out on a forgotten edge of his land in his tractor graveyard and hasn’t touched it in years. When I moved in a few months ago, I tried my best to shine it up, but there was only so much I could do.

  I sigh and let my head fall against the steering wheel, forgetting about the horn until it’s too late. It lets out a piddly ol’ hooooonk and some birds take flight outside, annoyed with me for disrupting the cicada-filled silence.

  I need to get a move on. I have about an hour before I need to be in bed sleeping so I can wake up and do this all over again.

  God, what’s the point?

  I squeeze my eyes closed, replaying the conversation I had with the billing lady from Nan’s nursing home earlier. She wanted to remind me that I missed this month’s payment and have now accrued a hefty late fee. It actually makes me laugh. Late fees are some dark humor shit. They think I need them to slap on a late fee to get me to pay up? I’d fork over the money if I had it, believe me.

  Nan’s nursing home costs so much it makes my chest burn to think about it. Good gravy. Who just has that amount of money lying around?

  I know I could put an end to all this right now and put her in a state-run facility, a place where they pack them
in like sardines and forget all about them, but Nan’s disease requires special circumstances. I’ve put her in the town’s only memory care facility, and it’s run by a private company which means Medicare won’t cover it. Her Social Security pays for half, and I make up the other half. Usually. I had a stomach bug last month so I had to call off work for a few days, which is why I’m behind on payments.

  Those basketball boys helped me out today though. They left Christine and me a huge tip, and I didn’t for one second feel bad about pocketing it. I’ll be able to pay this month’s bill from Nan’s nursing home and get some groceries tomorrow. As it is, I have to make do with what’s in the trailer for tonight. It’s the thought of dinner that finally rouses me from my hopeless fatigue. Cook made me food when I left Dale’s after my shift, but that was eight hours ago and I’m starving.

  I slide out of the car and head into the trailer, letting the heavy door slam shut behind me. I kick off my shoes, and my bare feet ache with pain. I’ll give them a break as soon as I make myself something to eat. I inspect the tiny cupboard over the trailer’s broken stove. I’ve got two packets of ramen left and a can of green beans. I’ve been saving the green beans, unsure of when I was going to be able to get more. With a tiny jolt of excitement, I reach for them.

  Beside the trailer’s broken stove—on the only good bit of counter space I have—I’ve set up a camping stove. That’s where I heat up my ramen and green beans in separate pots, letting them both go for a second while I strip out of my dirty clothes. Every day, I go from smelling like greasy food to chemical cleaners, and I can’t stand either. In a little while, I’ll rinse off inside the trailer’s itty-bitty shower and use some of the lavender soap Sheriff Corbin’s wife makes and leaves for me, but for now, it’s good enough just to be free of my work clothes.

  I check my phone while I wait for my food to heat up. Usually there’s nothing all that interesting to see on it. Not many people have the number for it, and it’s just a cheap one I picked up at Walmart when I left Pine Hill two years ago so there are no games or apps. I don’t always keep it active either; sometimes I’d rather save the cash during lean months.

  But lately, I’ve kept it on in case of emergencies for Nan, and so my boss at the cleaning company can give me information about where and when I’m expected to show up for jobs.

  Tonight, I have a rare missed call and a voicemail, both of which are from Professor Olmsted. I almost don’t listen to it, but my trailer is dead quiet and I’m lonely tonight.

  I can barely stand to hear her voice once I press the phone to my ear. She’s wondering how I’m doing and if I have plans of returning to campus in the fall. She’s also mailed more textbooks to the address I gave her, which is Sheriff Corbin’s house back toward the main road.

  She finishes the voicemail by asking me to give her a call back, but I know I won’t. What would I tell her anyway? That I’m delivering pancakes and rolling silverware for a living now? That her emailing me her course slides for the semester won’t do a lick of good considering I have no computer and no internet to view them with?

  Her reaching out is well-meaning and kind, and it also makes me feel like shit.

  Instead of calling her back, I grab my ramen and green beans off the stove, slide into the bench seat at the small table, and leaf through to where I left off in my advanced electrical engineering textbook. Then I pick up my pen and grab my fork with my other hand, scooping up big bites of noodles while I read and take notes in the margins of the textbook.

  Chapter Five

  Ben

  Sweat drips down the side of my face as I assess my options to get down to the top of the key. I dribble to the right and Trey’s there, grinning like a madman.

  “You gonna make this easy on yourself?” I quip, casually bouncing the ball back and forth as I taunt him.

  Trey laughs and I fake left, but he’s on me.

  I double back and change course, giving my teammates enough time to read the court. Anthony’s my right hand. He knows what I’m planning and where I’m headed better than anyone.

  Trey tries to steal the ball, and I reverse-pivot around him while dragging the basketball with me. Punk. He almost stole the ball from me.

  “Stop playing around,” Coach yells from the sidelines. Anthony grins, and at that moment I raise my body and look up at the basket. It tricks Trey long enough that he hesitates for a split second, and then I explode past him, passing the ball down court to Anthony with ease and bracing for him to pass it back to me. I’m right in position at the top of the key when I get the ball back, and I make a clean distance shot, adding another three points to my team’s score.

  Coach Dalton blows his whistle, announcing the end of the scrimmage and waving us over so we can gather in a semicircle around him. Anthony bumps his shoulder against mine and I pat his back. Trainers rush over, passing out Gatorade and towels. I wipe the sweat from my brow and eye Trey across from me. He’s pissed I got past him, and I only make it worse with a wink. He laughs and shoots some Gatorade into his mouth. He’s not one to hold a grudge off the court, but a few of the other guys are. They’re eyeing me like they wouldn’t mind another five minutes of play.

  Coach Dalton and his staff walk through the scrimmage with us while we catch our breaths. I listen to him critique Carmelo’s ball handling and keep my mouth shut. He was playing like shit today, but he wasn’t on my team so I didn’t care. Next, Mallory gets it for his outside shot violation. That amateur shit won’t fly when we’re at the Games.

  I get my own critique from Coach Dalton too, and it’s one I’ve heard a thousand times before.

  “Trust your team. Pass the goddamn ball.”

  Easier said than done. I’d rather work myself to the bone and ensure I’m getting points on the board than rely on other people who might try and fail. I don’t know most of these guys well, and I don’t dole out trust on a whim. They’ll have to earn it.

  Still, I nod at Coach Dalton, letting him know I heard him loud and clear.

  We break for the day and head back to the cabins.

  It’s late and we’ve been at it since eight this morning. Everyone’s dragging. I’m walking back with Trey and Anthony, and Anthony’s reenacting how I slid past Trey at the end of the scrimmage.

  “You should have seen your face,” Anthony says, losing it to a fit of laughter.

  Trey bumps into him and Anthony stumbles to the left, but it only makes him laugh harder. I meet Trey’s gaze and shake my head. Trey’s much more my speed. He’s married and closer to my age, quiet and reserved where most of the other guys have personalities that are larger than life. Anthony keeps the two of us on our toes.

  “Who wants to come to my cabin and play 2K21?” Anthony asks.

  Trey rolls his eyes. “Why do you waste your time with that shit? Pick up a book.”

  “Are you kidding me? You want me to look like this”—he waves his hand down his body—“and play like that”—he points back to the basketball complex—“and be smart? Bro, the world couldn’t handle it.”

  Jesus Christ, this kid. Half the time I want to punch him in the face. Fortunately, Trey beats me to it. He reaches out to sock him in the arm just as Anthony swoops to the right to avoid it.

  A feminine voice interrupts their laughter. “Would you guys cut it out? Haven’t you had enough time to beat each other up on the court?”

  I look up to see Leanna, or Lele as we call her, sitting on the steps of the cabin she’s sharing with Trey.

  She’s wearing sweatpants and a tank top, and her black hair is twisted up into a bun on top of her head. Even without a stitch of makeup, she’s beautiful, and I look over to see Trey’s eyes light up at the sight of her. They’ve been married for two years and still act like newlyweds.

  “Lele, babe, can I just say you are looking fine this eve—”

  Anthony doesn’t get to finish his statement because Trey finally lands a smack to the back of his head.

  “Stop
looking at my wife.”

  Anthony makes a big show of rubbing his scalp as if Trey’s hit really hurt him. “What?! I was just being nice. Jesus, can’t a man pay a beautiful woman a compliment?”

  “No. You can’t.”

  Lele tries to hide her smile as she shakes her head at us.

  I nod in greeting. “Evening, Lele.”

  She stands and grins as she walks down the steps to get to Trey. Her pregnant stomach is barely visible on her small frame. She’s not far along, which is good because Trey’s been worrying about being away from her when we head to Tokyo. Their initial plan was for her to go with him for the Games, but her doctor advised against it because of a few issues she’s been having with the baby. I don’t know much about it, but I know it’s been weighing on Trey.

  “How are my girls?” he asks, bending to kiss her cheek.

  “We’ll be better once you shower,” she says, teasing him as she scrunches her nose.

  I’m relieved that I don’t have to turn away from their show of affection. A few months back, their happy marriage would have reminded me too much of my failed one. Now, that ugly jealous voice is muffled by the genuine happiness I feel for my friend. He and Lele have been trying to have a baby for over a year and a half, and I know how much it’s affected Trey. They’re good together. Better than Shelby and I ever were.

  Alone in my cabin later, I still have a shit ton of stuff to get done. I have a dozen missed calls along with a full inbox of emails. My assistant is good about processing out the crap, but even the important correspondence adds up. I wish my job ended once I left the court every day, but half the role of being a professional athlete is managing a brand. The Olympic committee has been in coordination with my PR team in regards to a promo they want me to film with two other athletes who’ll be competing in the Tokyo Games: Brie Watson, an Olympic gymnast, and Andie Foster, who plays on the U.S. women’s Olympic soccer team. I’ll have to miss a day of practice to fly to New York City this Friday to shoot with them. While I’m there, I’ll also take a meeting with Nike executives to finalize the limited-edition Castillo sneakers they’ll release in conjunction with the start of the Games. I’ll shoot the campaign photos for the shoes that day too.