nine

Blaise Taylor
Cougar Point Guard
Carter Hall

The Porsche 911 series was hot. Blaise Taylor imagined himself driving down Montgomery Boulevard in it, turning every head. He clicked through the many model options. These bad boys were sweet.

“Completely impractical,” he could hear his momma saying. Blaise didn’t care. He’d worked hard for this opportunity and deserved something for his efforts. And he’d paid plenty of times. Blaise ran his fingers over the scars on his knuckles. By fifth grade he already towered over his peers but lacked the muscle to defend himself against the bullies. His only saving grace was the fact that his legs were longer than everyone else’s, giving him the head start he needed when the bell rang. He ran until his legs tired and discovered it took him one county over. To the Boys and Girls Club, where Coach Mike took pity on the sniffling kid and told him to work out his frustration on the court.

So Blaise did.

From fifth grade until his senior year of high school, Blaise worked the court from the time school let out until the sky grew so dark he had to use a flashlight to find his way back home. He glanced at the lineup of luxury cars on his computer screen. Carmine Red. He clicked the color so the model reflected his choice. A red so bright no one could ignore it. Not even the kids who had made his life hell—like Jamal Thurgood.

Jamal had made it his life mission to prove the only king on the court was him. And up until their senior year it had been hard to tell who was the better player. What Blaise lacked in aggression, he made up for in skill. And what Jamal lacked in skill, he made up for in illegal jabs, picks, and the violent personal foul that broke Blaise’s nose and ended Jamal’s chances to play college ball.

A ping alerted him to an email. Blaise swiveled around in his desk chair and grabbed his phone from the bed. His excitement over the car died the second he opened the email.

Blaise ran both hands through his hair, his fingers gripping it tight. Before further action is taken. He knew what that action would be. This wasn’t the first email the Watcher had sent him, and they haunted him almost as much as his own stupidity did. He should’ve reported the email the first time, but that would have meant telling on himself.

The screen on his phone changed to an incoming call from his mom. Tears burned his eyes. He was a twenty-one-year-old white kid from a hickville town in Georgia still aching for his momma to comfort him.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, clearing the emotion from his throat.

“What’s wrong?”

He wiped his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Hearing her concern gutted him. His dad always teased him about being a momma’s boy, but not in a demeaning way. It was more playful. His dad knew if anything ever happened to him, Blaise would take care of himself and his mom.

“I’m fine.” He reread the Watcher’s note. “Just ready for this to be over.”

“Soon, honey. All your hard work is going to pay off soon, and then you’ll be living your dream.” Her excitement trickled through the phone. “That’s why I’m calling. Mr. Morris helped me arrange our tickets. We’re flying into New York the morning before the draft.” Blaise heard his father in the background yelling about finding the best pizza place. “All your daddy can think about is food.” She giggled. “I bought a new dress. Do you want me to send you a picture?”

“Sure.” Blaise stretched out his legs. “Are you sure Dad should be flying?”

“Honey”—his mom’s voice dropped in volume—“this is all your daddy is looking forward to. His nurses say it’s helping him fight the cancer.”

The colon cancer had ravaged his father’s body, taking with it the strength of the man Blaise admired more than anyone else in his life. The diagnosis had stolen not only his father’s health but also his job at the plant. The small company couldn’t afford to keep him, and his parents’ insurance lapsed. Blaise had been using part of his scholarship money to help pay the bills, but it wasn’t enough. When his agent called and said he was being considered for a second-round draft pick, Blaise knew it would answer his family’s problems.

His eyes found the email and he balled his fists. There was one thing keeping him from helping his parents. One thing capable of sending his dream crashing down around him. His phone vibrated against his cheek. He pulled it away and saw the photo his mom had sent him of her dress. It was blue and matched her eyes.

“It’s beautiful, Mom.”

“You think so?”

“I do.” He didn’t know how she had paid for it, but he would put another deposit in their bank account to cover the cost.

“Oh, honey, we’re just so proud of you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Thanks, Mom.”

If only she knew the truth. Devastation would replace her pride. It would break her heart. And it would kill his father.

What if it didn’t? Part of him was so tired of the threats. So tired of hiding the secret, he thought maybe if he just told the truth, everything would be okay. Wasn’t there a saying about the truth setting you free? That’s what he wanted. Freedom. But he was chained to his past, just as he was chained to this email inviting him to a party he didn’t want to go to—and Blaise knew the consequences of rejecting it.

“Mom.”

“Yes?”

Just tell her. The confession was at the tip of his tongue. Momma, it’s all a lie. I lied to you. To Dad. I’m nothing but a fraud. All those teachers had been right. Blaise would never amount to anything. He wasn’t as smart as the other kids, so he did what he had to do to pass.

“Blaise, what’s going on, honey?”

He blinked, the memory of his sins slipping back into the recesses of his mind, along with his courage. “Nothing, Momma.”

“How are your classes? Did you pass that math test?”

“Got a B plus.”

“So Coach Robbins was right?”

Blaise scratched behind his ear. “Yeah. He doesn’t want the draft to distract me from what’s important.” The invitation glowed—a not-so-subtle reminder that the Watcher didn’t seem to mind distracting him.

“That’s right. He’s a smart man.”

A red flag popped up on his inbox. New message. Blaise’s fingers shook as he moved the cursor and clicked.

A timer ticked, along with a link.

“Mom, I need to go.”

“Okay, honey. Take care of yourself and try to get some rest. You sound tired.”

“I will.” Ending the call, he dropped the phone onto his desk with a clunk. He was tired. Tired of this.

He clicked the link and a familiar video filled the screen. There he was in all his black-and-white glory, walking into Professor Bludworth’s office. When Blaise had first gotten the email to meet with his teacher, he was sure it was to discuss his failing math grade that would put him on academic probation, preventing him from playing in the season’s opener.

Blaise watched himself sit in the empty chair across from Bludworth’s vacant desk, looking around the office and then at his watch. He had been worried about being late for a date with Valerie. Blaise grunted. The nursing major had been too smart for him and had figured it out after their second date, which also ended up being their last.

Several minutes passed before Blaise rose from the chair and walked around the desk. His focus was on the photos of Professor Bludworth’s travels across the globe. Pyramids, some ancient structure Blaise thought he’d seen in a Transformers movie, and a few taken in front of landmarks he recognized from his World History class.

The second his eyes landed on the file of answer sheets, guilt knotted Blaise’s gut. Watching himself pick through the folder, he knew exactly what he had been thinking. It was the answer he needed. The quick fix to bring up his grades so he could play, because not passing meant he’d fail and failing meant he’d lose his scholarship and losing his scholarship meant he couldn’t take care of his family.

“I just needed to pass.” Blaise’s words came out a harsh whisper.

He’d been telling himself that for years now. In fact, he’d forgotten how many times he’d broken into his teachers’ offices in high school to steal test answers. Enough times to help him graduate high school so he could play basketball in college.

“You better hope you can make something of yourself on the court, because you’ve got a pile of rocks in that head of yours.”

Blaise had wanted to prove Mrs. Van Buren wrong, but no matter how hard he tried, the failing grades on his tests only proved her right. So he did what he had to do. If basketball was all he had, then he wouldn’t let anyone get in the way—even himself.

Without having to study, Blaise was able to hit the courts harder and longer than anyone else, upping his game. Securing a scholarship to play ball in college was all that mattered . . . and then his father got diagnosed with cancer.

Basketball seemed like the only thing that brought life back to his father’s dim eyes and lifted his mother’s weariness. When Coach Robbins offered him the scholarship to play for the Anderson Cougars, it felt like things were going to be okay no matter how he had gotten there.

Blaise was able to send money to his parents. And the harder he worked on the court, the better he became. Eventually, talk about him getting drafted made him believe that somehow God had forgiven him for cheating and was blessing his efforts by giving him a way to take care of his parents.

According to the ticking digital clock on the screen, he had thirty-seven minutes left to decide what to do, but that wasn’t necessary. Blaise opened up the original email and clicked the link, accepting the job. He might not have known a security camera was filming him stealing the test answers from Professor Bludworth’s office, but somehow the Watcher did, and now he had the power to make Blaise do whatever he asked.

This time the Watcher was directing him to attend a party with a girl. The last time he had to show up with a camera at a hotel. Blaise didn’t ask questions. He did what he was asked and prayed the Watcher would keep his word and not release the video exposing Blaise for the cheat he was. So far, he had.

Blaise’s agent informed him that several security directors had been looking into his family. Visiting his hometown to talk to his old friends and teachers. Even kept tabs on his social media pages. NBA owners weren’t willing to risk the reputations of their teams over a player with questionable integrity—especially in regard to cheating.

The face of a girl popped up on his screen. She was young. Beautiful, but definitely young. He read through the details provided to him by the Watcher and nausea crept up his throat. He didn’t know what the Watcher had planned or why it involved this girl, but if he thought too much on it, he was afraid his conscience would win out. Blaise looked over at the family photo tacked to his corkboard—a painful reminder that his conscience no longer mattered.

He grabbed his phone and pressed the number of his friend. “Dude, I want to get drunk.”

“Aw, man, we’ve gotta be on the court tomorrow before the sun comes up.”

“I don’t care.”

“Dude, we’re gonna be hurting.”

Blaise shut down his computer. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, man. Give me a minute to get my shoes on.”

Ending the call, Blaise grabbed his wallet and shoved it and his phone deep into his pocket. He didn’t care how much it would hurt in the morning. Tonight he would drink until the guilt over what he had done and what he was going to do didn’t bother him anymore.