For one thing, I’m playing with a veteran who knows how to win at this level. Kenan Ross is a beast. I’ve admired his game for years. I watch him during our first team meeting and have to admit it’s a great opportunity to play with him, even if I’m not sure he wants to be here either. He left a contending team, who won a championship just a few years ago, to come here and start from scratch.
“In my nose or in my teeth?” he asks under his breath while our head coach reiterates the privilege we have of building a team from the bottom.
“Huh?” I shoot him a perplexed look. “What’re you talking about?”
“You checking me out like a chick,” he says with a crooked grin, his teeth startlingly white against his dark skin. “So either you wanna ask me out . . .” He gives me a quick side-eye. “And the answer is hell no, by the way.”
I snort-snicker, glancing up to make sure Coach hasn’t noticed us not paying attention.
“Or there’s a booger in my nose, something in my teeth.”
“Uh . . . neither,” I assure him. “Nose and teeth all clear, and rest assured, you’re a little hairier than my usual.”
“Bigger, too, I assume,” he says with an easy grin.
Dude is huge. At six foot seven inches, he’s one of the best power forwards in the game. And swole with it. He’s as hard as marble, and at thirty years old, in the best shape of his life. He picked up the nickname “Glad” in college, short for gladiator. He throws bows down low, and he’s known for his aggressiveness in the paint. He battles for every possession, goes after every rebound. He’s an excellent two-way player, defense and offense, and as someone who has been accused of needing work in the defense department, I have much to learn from him.
Iris busted my balls about defense.
Fuck. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about her. She’s pregnant with another man’s baby. A jerk’s baby.
“Now you all pouty,” Kenan says from the side of his mouth. “Okay. I’ll go out with you. Damn.”
I chuckle and shake my head.
“Keep your pity date, man.” My smile disappears. “Though I was thinking about this chick I promised myself I wouldn’t think about anymore.”
“Yeah.” Kenan’s smile fades as fast as mine did. “I can relate.”
I’m an idiot. Kenan requested a trade when his wife cheated with one of his teammates on his last team. “Shit, Glad,” I say, inwardly kicking myself. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s aight.” His smile is manufactured, nothing like the natural one of a few minutes ago. “She’s not worth discussing. Neither is he.”
“But she was worth leaving a championship team to come here?” I ask.
“What’s wrong with here?” Kenan asks, his brows lifted. “I’m making the same money.”
“Yeah, well some of us don’t have rings yet,” I say, hoping I keep the bitterness out of my voice. “So money’s not everything.”
“What you thinking about rings for already?” He blows out a puff of disgusted air. “It’s only October. Season one. You just got here, Rook. You got a lot to learn and earn. You think because you were the man on your campus, you’ll come in here taking names and leaving your mark and shit?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“It is that.” Kenan’s eyes go hard. “I’ve played with entitled pricks before. Don’t be one.”
I bite back my defensive response and leave space for him to say more if he wants. He’s right. I have been acting like an entitled prick.
“How many guys from your high school are playing pro ball?” he demands.
“Just me,” I reply quietly.
“And from your college team? Any of them in the NBA?”
“Nah,” I admit with a shake of my head, remembering all the great players who just weren’t great enough to be here. “None.”
“Right, so quit thinking about what you don’t have and be grateful for what you do. You gotta pay some dues.” He stands when the coach dismisses us and tells us to report to the gym. “Starting now.” He points to the gym bag at his feet.
“That’s you,” he says.
“Uh . . . excuse me?” I point to my bag a few feet way. “No, that’s my bag over there.”
“I know that, Rook.” His grin is back, and this one is not only natural, but at my expense. “Since you’ve been here all of a day, but already think you should be winning rings, let’s see you carry bags for someone who actually has a ring.”
“Oh. You want me to . . .” My voice trails off as he walks away, leaving his bag for me to haul.
Another veteran player heads over and hands me his bag.
“Glad said you got this, Rook.” He smirks and drops the bag at my feet.
“Yeah, but—”
“This you?” another vet asks, dropping his bag and walking toward the gym.
“Um . . . no, I was just trying to tell Glad that—”
“Thanks, Rook,” he says and walks away.
By the time I make it into the gym, I’m struggling with seven bags, none of them mine. I drop them unceremoniously by the benches and jerk the sweatshirt over my head to join my teammates for practice.
“I wondered what was taking you so long,” Kenan says, bouncing the ball in a dribbling drill.
“So are you, like, hazing me or something?” I try to keep my voice light, but maybe I do resent that stunt a little.
Kenan stops dribbling to look me in the eye. “Everybody knows what you can do, Rook. We may be vets, but Deck is building this team around you. You’re young, but you’re the franchise player. We get that,” he says quietly. “But when you’re in the trenches with somebody, you don’t just need to know what they can do. You need to know who they are. I wanna know more about your character than I do about your game right now.”
His penetrating stare assesses me. “So yeah, you’ll carry bags for vets from time to time. Nothing wrong with staying humble before all the rings start rolling in.”
“It’s the least I can do,” I grudgingly concede, offering the smallest grin.
“Count yourself lucky.” He takes a shot that’s nothing but net. “They made me clean jock straps.”
“Shit.” I twist my face in disgust. “Ball sweat?”
“Ball sweat.”
Give me bags any day.
9
August
Life doesn’t always deliver on its promises, and some dreams taste sweetest before they come true.
Such is my NBA career so far. It’s February, halfway through my rookie season, and we have the sub-five hundred year you’d expect from an expansion team. No way we’ll win half our games at the rate we’re going. Kenan keeps reminding me we’re just starting out and to be patient.
Another thing that’s overrated? The all-you-can-fuck pussy buffet. I admit I’ve taken advantage of it. Had a threesome or six. Hell, I was with four girls at once a few weeks ago. I think one chick just sucked my thumb because the other three had all the vital bases covered. It’s a rite of passage for most professional athletes, the overindulged dick. Wilt Chamberlain claimed he slept with twenty thousand women. I just have to wonder did it get old this quickly? Did he lie in bed some nights, a woman on each side, and feel utterly alone? Did he think about one particular girl while he was fucking all the others?
’Cause that’s my present dilemma.
Caleb and I have only met on court once this season. It was my best individual performance so far because our mutual dislike brings out my best play. It’s a team sport, though, and his team, my hometown Stingers, had a better night and are the better team. We lost in overtime by two points.
Caleb and I barely spoke that night. I forced myself to shake his hand before leaving the court because Coach Kirby would ream my ass for bad sportsmanship if I didn’t, but I couldn’t look him in the eye. I would have lost my shit if I’d seen his smug satisfaction. He’s on the team I wanted to play for in my hometown. He’s got the girl I can’t get out of my head. News travels fast on the NBA circuit, and a few months ago, the golden boy having a baby was all anyone wanted to talk about.
Every time I think of them having a kid, building a life together, I want to punch a hole through the wall.
Or through Caleb’s face. Whatever’s closer.
It’s All-Star Weekend, and by some miracle, I was voted into Sunday’s All-Star game, albeit third string, but I hadn’t expected even that as a rookie. Of course, Caleb was voted in, too. I just can’t escape that guy. The media is carrying the “rivalry” on from high school and college, perpetuating it every chance they get. They’ve created this narrative of us being in a two-man race for Rookie of the Year. I don’t even want my name in the same sentence as his, and people can’t seem to talk about me without talking about him. At least he’s not in tonight’s three-point contest.
I have a couple hours before I need to show up for my next All-Star commitment, an appearance at a local homeless shelter. The league is big on players giving back. I love the city of San Diego and will definitely do some charitable work there, but I’ve already spoken with the league’s charity coordinators about doing a few things in the community where I grew up. Baltimore may be Caleb’s team, but it’s my town. My childhood was there. My family is there, my history, and my friends. That core group of people nurtured me to help me get where I am, and I want to contribute there and to the city that drafted me.
Right now, in the madness of All-Star Weekend, I just need a minute to myself. There will be cameras at the homeless shelter this afternoon. I’ve been signing autographs and taking pictures with fans all day. There will be interviews on court and off tonight at the three-point contest. Everywhere I go, I have to be on, and for just a minute, I don’t want to be. I rush down a back hall of the arena where the festivities are being held.