Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 122514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
I watched him for another hour, and he never slowed down.
Bounce, bounce, pivot, then up for a layup. Sometimes, he fell back and tossed it up in a pretty arc, what would be a teardrop shot or a floater. Other times, a hard hit against the backboard. Just over and over again.
A quick rebound.
Or back to the three-point line.
The free-throw line.
He just kept on.
After a third hour, he started to slow down.
Another player came in the side door, but he saw Reese playing, and after a second of watching him, he eased back out.
I didn’t think it was coincidence that Juan Cartion came to stand outside another side door a few minutes later. He made no move to come inside. It was apparent he was there to watch his best friend, and when Reese switched from shooting hoops to walking up and down the court dribbling the ball in short, angry staccato beats, his friend left.
A normal person would’ve lost the ball in two seconds.
Reese never did.
My phone beeped.
Dazed, I grabbed it to see what the alert was.
Trent: Headed to my room. Where are you? I need to get to bed, early flight in the morning.
He wanted to come and say goodbye. I was weird about goodbyes. Just tack that on to the long list of what made me special, but it was what it was. I hated saying goodbye. Despised. Loathed. Strongly opposed. You name it, I was. There was a reason for it, and as I remembered and felt that pressure building in my chest, I shut it down.
It was ironic because that shut everything else off too.
Me: Damian called. Mind if I give you a goodbye hug through our phones? Can you feel it?
Damian was one of the few reasons Trent would believe I needed space.
I felt a burning in my throat. The bark had moved to the side.
I hit send, and there was a small pause.
Trent: Sounds good. Call me if you want to talk.
I pocketed the phone, knowing I wouldn’t call, knowing he knew I wouldn’t call, and knowing we both knew the next time we’d talk was when he came back at the end of this whole preseason training camp.
Turning off the light in the cage, I slid onto the stool behind the counter.
I sat and watched Reese Forster play, knowing this was a special moment in my life. I wanted to protect it, even if that meant lying to a friend.
I was okay with that, and if I explained it to Trent later, I thought he’d be okay with it too.
Babe.
Buzz.
I’m sorry.
Buzz.
Babe, forgive me.
Buzz.
Babe.
Buzz.
Babe.
Buzz.
Babe.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
I swatted at a fly. It was waking me up, and it kept coming around. Finally, hearing another buzz, I bolted upright with my pillow in hand, and I swung. That sucker was going down.
But…
No fly.
I swung and the pillow hit me in the face. I ate cloth.
I had to sit for a minute and get my bearings, but when I heard another buzz, along with the words of Ricky Nelson’s “Baby I’m Sorry,” which I had programmed at an accidental brilliant moment. The song sounded different because I got the phone to sing it in an Australian accent. Genius, I tell you.
Without looking, I knew who the texts were from, and then I was wishing for the fly instead.
That song played every time Lucas texted, which meant he… I had no clue what it meant, actually. I hadn’t heard a word from him since Newt broke the news to me and I’d left the next day with Trent.
I did the math, which was hard, and we were at the forty-eight-hour mark. So either Lucas just found out or the next girl had already dumped him.
I considered for a second, and my money was on the girl. I rolled over and picked up the phone.
Lucas: Why aren’t you answering my texts?
Lucas: Where are you?
Lucas: Gramps said you came by. I missed you.
Lucas: I miss you now.
Lucas: You’re still not answering—
He was covering his ass. There were twenty other texts from him, and I deleted all of them—without blinking, without a second thought, without reading. One by one, I wiped them clear, and once the screen was blank, a satisfied smile came to my face.
I lie back down, closing my eyes. I could get another twenty minutes of shut-eye.
BUZZ.
It was louder now that I was awake.
Groaning, I flipped the phone on and hit call. I was ready for him, expecting him to answer.
It rang, and rang, and then, “This is the Luc-machine. Say your piece and I might listen…”
He didn’t answer and he’d literally just texted.
After the beep, I said, “Dude. You were fucking another girl. Your grandpa told me. We’re done, and save your drool. You were the guy to help me get over someone ten times better than you. I used you, so whatever. We’re through. You’re not worth the time it took to call you.” I started to hang up, but brought the phone back to my mouth. “Do not call, text, send smoke signals, think about me, or jerk off to me. Done, Luc-you-bet-your-ass-you’re-an-ass. BYE, Felicia.”