14. Gavin
GAVIN
We left Tuesday night for Vegas. The tournament spanned three days and was a single-round elimination. One final test before the national tourney begins, and we dominate it, taking home the conference championship.
Immediately after the game, I’m pulled for an on-camera interview.
“Congratulations,” the reporter, Bob, says.
He’s an old-timer, been in the business a long time, covering both men’s and women’s collegiate basketball games.
“This is the second conference championship for the Leonard family with your mom and the Huskies winning their conference title last week. How does it feel?”
“It feels great,” I say, still catching my breath. “Our team worked hard, and it paid off.”
“Are your parents here tonight?”
“They’re watching at home.” I paste on a brighter smile and wave at the camera. I know at least one of them is actually seeing this.
Bob leans closer to shout over the crowd. “Twenty-one points today and four assists. You looked strong out there. Your performance tonight was reminiscent of your dad’s final game before he went pro, where he also had twenty-one points and four assists.”
He pauses, like he expects some reaction from me, but I’m not sure what—happiness at being compared to my dad, or maybe respect for the man who Bob thinks is responsible for my talent as a player. When I don’t respond, Bob continues, “What do you think your dad will say when you talk to him?”
I always expect these types of questions, but they don’t seem to get any easier to answer.
The truth is my dad says very little about ball.
Ever since I told him I wasn’t interested in playing professionally, he stopped pretending to care.
Which is fine by me, but the loving dad who supports his son, no matter what, is better optics.
But I know what my mom will say, so I give him that.
“He’d say congrats but don’t get too comfortable because the real work is just about to start. ”
“Thanks for your time, Gavin. Good luck to you.”
In the locker room, we celebrate—yelling and cutting up.
It’s true, the real work is just getting started, but we’ll take tonight to enjoy.
Coach Reynolds walks in, flashing a rare smile, and holds up a hand to get us to quiet down.
“Nice job this week. You should be proud. You played smart, moved the ball, and kept turnovers low. That’s what it’s going to take every game from here on out.
” We’re vibrating with energy. One step closer.
He motions with his head. “Get in here.”
We huddle up, hands in the middle.
“We’re having dinner together as a team, then you have a night off.”
Some of the guys start to whoop their excitement.
“Curfew is at eleven.”
Those same guys groan.
Coach levels them with a serious stare. “I don’t want to have to track anyone down. The bus leaves for the airport at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. You can have all the time off you want after we win the national championship.” He nods his head to me, signaling he’s done talking.
“One, two, three,” I say, and together, we all lift our hands. “Run ‘em.”
Food is catered to a banquet room in the hotel. We get off the bus and a lot of guys head straight there, but I go up to my room first to call my mom. As expected, she watched the game and is full of happiness and praise.
“Did you see the interview after the game?”
“Yes, I saw it. Have you talked to him?”
I know exactly who she means. “He sent a text.”
“You need to talk to him, Gavin. It isn’t good to keep all this anger inside.”
“Not tonight. I don’t want him to ruin this.”
She sighs but doesn’t press. A few minutes later, we hang up, and I head down to meet up with the team.
I scroll the headlines about the game on my phone.
Every single one mentions him. It straight pisses me off that he gets the credit.
A few also mention my mom, but only as a coach, not as a great baller.
She was a D1 athlete herself, and the real reason I have any skill on the court.
She is the only reason I amounted to anything.
My mom spent hours running me to practices, rebounding balls, talking plays and strategy while Dad was gone.
I never resented him for it until I got older and realized that him being an absent parent was a choice, not something he could blame on his career.
Plenty of parents travel for work. He could have called or come home more. He could have fucking tried harder.
As I’m coming off the elevator, a guy, maybe mid-thirties, recognizes me. “You’re Anthony Leonard’s son. Holy shit, you look just like him. Is he here, too?”
I shake my head. “Nah, man, sorry.”
He sidesteps to get in my path, and he walks backward in front of me. “Is it true that he’s dating that 90’s supermodel? What’s her name? Christy? Nah. Denise?”
“You’d have to ask him,” I say as politely as I can muster. My jaw feels like it might break, I’m grinding down so hard on my molars.
“Can I get your autograph? My buddies are never going to believe that I ran into Anthony Leonard’s son.”
I stop and nod my agreement. The woman with him fishes out a pen and a piece of paper, which I scribble my signature on then hand back.
“Are you heading to the NBA too?”
Everyone close to me knows I’m not, but again—optics. I give him my rehearsed answer. “We’ll see.”
I start walking again and he doesn’t follow, only yells after me, “Nice to meet you.”
I feel like a dick, but it’s not as easy to fake my love and admiration for my dad one-on-one like that. I don’t want to shatter that guy’s perception of him. Maybe I should, but I know what it feels like to have it shattered into a million jagged pieces.
It’s funny that all the bad press hasn’t stopped his hardcore fans from worshipping him.
Shit, maybe it’s even made it worse. They want every salacious detail.
I guess it’s a lot sexier to think your hero is banging celebrities and living the A-list life, than home being dad of the year with his wife and son.
By the time I make it into the banquet room, where they’re serving food, I’m the last through the line and there aren’t a lot of seats left. Coach and his wife, Blair, are at a table by themselves, so I head there.
“Okay if I sit here?” I ask.
“Of course.” Coach has his arm draped over the back of Blair’s chair. He eyes my plate with a chuckle. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” I admit. I don’t speak again for a solid five minutes while I devour half the food in front of me.
Seeing Coach with his wife makes me grin.
He’s a quieter guy, serious, always analyzing and working, but when she’s around, he has this carefree, happy expression that totally transforms him into a big ol’ teddy bear.
The guys and I all know the best time to ask for anything is when Blair is nearby.
Noah drops into the seat next to me and looks at my plate. “Are you going to eat both those rolls?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“They’re out.”
I toss him one, which he immediately shoves in his mouth, then I slide my phone out of my pocket and pull up mine and Violet’s text exchange.
Mostly it’s just me texting her. Since I saw her last, I’ve sent several to see how she’s feeling, but all I’ve gotten back was one that said: Better. Thanks.
I fire off another: Still feeling okay?
She doesn’t immediately respond, and I panic-send another: We are heading back early tomorrow.
The messages turn to read, but I don’t get anything back. I’m not sure what I’m expecting from her. No, that’s a lie. I’m hoping she’ll be ecstatic that I’m back next door and want to hang out. A long shot? Hell yeah, but a guy can dream.
“Everything okay?” Coach asks.
I look up to find him staring at me with his brows pulled together.
“Yeah. Everything is great. I was just checking my texts.”
“He’s probably checking up on Violet again.” Noah smirks, mouth closed, as he continues to chew.
I tuck my phone away.
“Is Violet your girlfriend?” Blair asks. She has dark hair that Coach twists around his fingers absently while they wait for my answer.
“No. She’s just a friend.”
“A friend?” Noah barks a laugh. “She hates him.”
My face heats. “She doesn’t hate me.”
“Well, she doesn’t like you,” he mutters.
“Uh oh.” Blair has an infectious smile. She sneaks a glance at her husband and then asks, “What’d you do?”
“How do you know I did something?”
“Because I dated a twenty-one-year-old basketball player just like you once.”
Coach scoffs. “Please. I was way better than him.”
She rolls her eyes but laughs.
“I screwed up,” I admit.
Blair gives me a sympathetic smile as she dips her shoulder to lean against coach.
My chest tightens as I watch them. They have this ease between them, playful and loving.
They say hindsight is 20/20, and I think that must be true because when I see them together, it makes two things in my life crystal clear.
Number one, my parents never had that. Or at least not as far back as I can remember.
Number two, I want that.
And I can only picture it with one person.