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Colt
Seven months later
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EVERYTHING FREEZES. My breath. My movements. The guy in front of me. The entire room falls so silent you can hear a hair drop. Not a pin. Those tinny-sounding fuckers are loud in a quiet environment. A hair.
My gaze follows the orange blur as though it’s moving in slow motion. It arcs through the air toward its goal.
No one moves. No one breathes. Not even a heartbeat as the ball sails through the air into the hoop, and then my breath rushes out as I sigh in relief. My arms drop and the crowd erupts into cheers, and claps, and shouts. The noise is deafening. The thudding of feet as my teammates rush toward me. Their hot, sweaty hands on my skin as they lift me into the air above their shoulders for a victory lap. The slow drag of the other teams’ feet as they shuffle defeated from the court.
We’ve just won the National Championship.
I’ve just won the National Championship.
My goal. The winning goal. We were playing against the best college team in the league. Undefeated for the last four years until this year. The only difference between this year and the last four, is me.
Coach comes barreling toward us, knocking my teammates out of the way. “You little fucking beauty!” He reaches up to fist-bump me. “We couldn’t have done it without you!”
“Duh.”
FU had had a terrible run in recent years. They offer the best sports program in the country, the best coaches and training equipment, but they’re lacking in the winning department. They can’t live up to their reputation. I’m here to put their reputation back on the map.
Not a bad effort for a rookie, busting my balls to prove my worth. Coach bit the bullet and made me shooting guard for the last few games.
Totally paid off.
We are the fucking champions.
It’s a surreal feeling. The pure joy and excitement of winning, of knowing I’m the reason we’re here and the realization I finally fit in. I’m part of a team. My teammates have become friends, sort of. They accept my impulsiveness. They seem to admire it, they follow me around, hang on every word I say, almost competing for my attention.
I’ve never had that before. My whole life people have overlooked me, rolled their eyes at my behavior or reprimanded me for it. Now though, on this team I’m praised for my abrasiveness, my lack of empathy and not giving a shit about anyone. I do what I want, when I want, and the guys love it.
After all the handshakes and polite talk, I can’t wait to get to the locker rooms to have a shower and get the hell out of there. I love the game. I love the team. I love winning. But all that schmoozing and talking, needing to be ‘on’ all the time is draining. I have to focus on what I’m doing, what I’m saying. I need to remain calm and professional at all times during the presentation. It’s exhausting, when all I want to do is grab Em and go get some ice-cream. Not even a celebratory beer. I want a choc-dipped ice-cream with crushed peanuts. I don’t drink often, and if I do, it’s one beer.
I’m the first one in the locker room, like always. I grab my clothes and head for the showers. Em said she’ll meet me outside when I’m ready and I don’t want to keep her waiting too long. If Austin finds her in the hall alone, he’ll be all over her and she’ll likely break his jaw if he tries to make a move on her. So, I need to shower and change fast for both their sakes. Last thing I need is my point guard whining like a girl over a bruised face.
The sounds of the team cheering filters into the room. Their steps thunder down the hall and burst through the door as I shut off the shower and wrap the towel around my waist.
They're on a high, laughing and joking with each other. Roman apparently getting the afterparty started early. He wheels in a cooler and throws beers at everyone, including Coach who swears at him and throws it back, before walking off into the office. Two seconds later he reappears, crosses the floor, pulls the same beer out of the cooler and shrugs. “Fuck it.” He grins before retreating to his office again. The guys cheer.
Rome hands me a beer, but I shake my head and push it back to him.
“Nah, man,” I say, pulling my shorts on and discarding my towel on the bench.
“C’mon, dude, you deserve it. We fucking won.”
“Later. I’ve got to go. Em’s waiting for me.” He folds his arms over his chest and arches an eyebrow. The expression on his face says ‘whipped’, or ‘I can’t believe you’re blowing off the team when we should celebrate’.
“You’re coming to the party though, right?”
I wince. I don’t want to go to the stupid party, but it’s customary for the team to hold a party after every game. Most parties I avoid because we lose, and the guys just want to drown their sorrows in tequila. But we’ve just won the championship, and if I don’t attend and show my face for five minutes, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.” After I get my choc-dipped ice-cream covered in crushed peanuts.
“Sweet. Bring Em, too, because Austin,” Rome pauses and glances over his shoulder, “wants to...”
He trails off seeing the glare from me.
I bark out a laugh. “Austin can want whatever the hell he wants. Em’s not that stupid. She won’t fall for his cheesy lines and whatever other shit he pulls to get chicks in his bed.”
“Defensive much?” Rome goads. They like to hound me about my friendship with Em. None of them can understand how we’re friends and nothing more. They don’t believe you can be friends with the opposite sex.
If Austin wants to get in Em’s pants, good luck to him. I’m not defending Em, so much as I’m reinforcing the fact she’s not stupid enough to believe a few pickup lines.
I’ve seen it time and time again over the last few months. Guys try hard to get Em to fall for their charms, but because she has trust issues, she firmly friend-zones every one of them. Most are dumb enough to believe they can win her trust and get her into bed. Instead, they hold on to hope for so long they can’t wait any more. It isn’t Em’s fault. She’s adamant she won’t date anyone until they earn her trust.
They never do.
Most of the time they can’t keep it in their pants long enough to wait for Em, and that’s an immediate deal breaker for her.
Austin’s no different. He’ll pull every move known to man to seduce her, and when he can’t get what he wants, he’ll get it somewhere else, and that will put their friendship back at square one. Then because he’s Austin and not the type of guy to screw around, he’ll regret getting his dick wet for one night and losing his chance with Em.
It’s a vicious cycle and fucking hilarious to see unfold.
I cross my arms. “Not at all. I’ve seen it happen too often. I can guarantee Em won’t fall for it.”
“Austin’s pretty slick, why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?”
I quirk an eyebrow, intrigued at the prospect of making money from doing nothing. “I’m listening.”
“I’ll bet you two hundred bucks that Austin gets into Em’s pants by the time the new season starts.”
“Six months? You’re giving him six months to work his magic?”
Rome nods.
“And you’re expecting me to bet two hundred bucks on my best friend’s sex life?”
He shrugs once and screws up his face. “Is that wrong? Probably is.”
“How the hell should I know? You’re on, but let’s make it more interesting. Two grand.”
This time it’s Rome’s turn to lift an eyebrow in surprise. “Two grand? You’re that confident in Em’s ability to hold out for six months?”
“I am.” He has no clue what she’s like. I’d bet a year, but I don’t want to wait that long for the money. The cash will help pay our rent for a few months so Dad doesn’t have to fork out so much.
He steps back. “All right, loser. You’re on.” He shakes my outstretched hand and punches me in the arm before walking off. “Catch you later,” he calls over his shoulder.
I make my way back to my locker, gather up my things and go in search of Emerson, already picturing the scene in my head. Em acting nonchalant and not interested. Austin pulling his famous moves, leaning against the wall, flirting, talking up his game.
I get about three steps down the hall when I hear his voice. Like a weirdo, I creep down the narrow corridor keeping my steps light to not alert them of my approach—a huge feat considering all I want to do is run and sweep Em up and get as far from people as possible. Crowds and people stress me out after a while.
I pause at the corner and peer around. Em is leaning against the wall, one foot propped up behind her. She isn’t the least bit interested in what Austin is saying. I’ve seen that expression on her face many times before. The glazed-over eyes, the pursed lips, the way she flicks the fingernail on her ring finger over and over with her thumb. She is likely creating a to-do list in her head as Austin drawls on and on about the game and spouts his stats like it’s impressive.
She lives with me.
She’s heard it all before, time and time again. She gives me her full attention when I ramble on about the games, practices, stats, whatever, because she understands me and my need for it. If she doesn’t listen to me ramble on about basketball, then I’ll go off and jump out of a plane, or hike a mountain because I’m impulsive like that, and then she’s left to bring me back down to earth. Literally and figuratively. But she doesn’t give a shit about the game, or winning, or anything else. She cares about me and keeping my thoughts in check. If it weren’t for her, I’d likely be dead from pulling a stupid stunt one too many times.
That’s where the guys get her wrong. Because she comes and cheers me on every game, meets me after every practice, they assume she is a ball bitch like the rest of the basket bunnies that hang around. They’re like basketball groupies. I prefer the term ball bitches. Em hates it when I refer to them as that. She says it’s insensitive. But I’ve never claimed to be sensitive and if the dick fits...
They chase ball players and go after...well, their balls. Some have some mad ball-handling skills, pun intended. Some are as delicate as a vacuum set on turbo.
Emerson is none of them.
Austin will learn that the hard way, and I will take Rome for all his cash with a pep in my step and a giant fuck you smile.