10. Salem
SALEM
“ Y ou’re quiet today.” Cillian bumps my shoulder. “Everything all right?”
“Yep.” I shove my foot into my sneaker and pull on the laces until they’re strangling my foot. “Just getting locked in.” I feel him staring. “What’s up?”
He raises his hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
I grunt as I loosen the laces and re-tie them.
“Jones, what you got for us tonight?” Coach asks, hands on her hips.
I’m not feeling like I have the energy to be the pre-game hype man tonight, but still, I push to my feet. “Tonight’s dub’s for all the LGBTQIA kids out there. Who y’all reppin’?”
“Tara and Benny from Sunrise Pediatric Hospital,” Cillian jumps in.
I nod and turn to Otis.
“Camden,” he replies, tucking his phone away.
I nod to Nikola, who’s mid-yawn.
“We’re putting you to sleep?” Coach cuts in.
“Sombor,” he rushes out, jumping to a stand.
“Onyx?” I turn to him.
“Inglewood,” he replies, tucking his jersey into his shorts.
“My mama,” Zyair throws out, stretching out his hamstrings.
Once the rest of the team has a turn, I reach my hand in for a huddle, and everyone—well, everyone except Rob—leans in. “Lions on three!”
We light Charlotte up.
Well, for the first three quarters. They fought back in the fourth.
We got a steal on the last possession. Onyx yeeted it to me.
We needed at least two points to win. Though wide open, I didn’t trust the shot, so I lobbed it to Cillian who, tangled up by their center and small forward, was already gesturing for me to shoot.
Sorry, partna.
He got free and launched the ball seconds shy of the game buzzer.
A whistle was called. Juiced with too much backspin, the ball smacked the inside of the rim, and bounced out.
Their crowd got hulked, then went zombie when the ref made good on the whistle.
Their small forward shoved Nikola, which meant Nikola got to the free-throw line, where he copped us uno, dos buckets.
We won.
The crowd booed.
Coach ate us alive. “ Sloppy dubs don’t win rings.”
And now I’m staring at the room of reporters, glued to my seat with dread.
“Did you bake a cake for Arnaz?” one of them asks.
“Next question.” I cross my arms.
“Do you have a response to Darius and To?—”
“I don’t respond to critics,” I grit out, cutting them off. “Next question.”
Those fuckers.
My jaw tightens.
They’re on the blatant end of the spectrum when it comes to homophobia, and they’re not alone.
After six-plus seasons in the league, you learn to hear the snake’s rattle when fielding questions.
An interviewer last week had Cat immediately expanding my interview restrictions clause after they asked inane questions like:
“ Do you find it difficult being in the locker room?”
“Are you concerned that the latest media attention will distract your teammates from the game?”
“Was it harder for you to compete as an athlete?”
“Do you find it burdensome to represent all gay players in sports?”
“Do you regret coming out?”
And then there’s this crap I started but can’t finish. “Are you and Arnaz Cade dating?” a reporter asks.
“No.” I straighten up in my chair. “Y’all got questions about basketball?”
Cillian’s knee knocks against mine before he leans into the mic. “I’ll take the rest of the questions.”
“Good lookin’,” I grunt, pushing to my feet.
I’m intercepted by Meghan, our assistant manager, on the way to the locker room. “What do you want me to do with this, boss?” She holds up a gift basket. It’s like the seventh one this week.
“Send it back.”
Just like the others.
I pick up my dog sitter’s fallen textbook, then tap gently on his shoulder until he stirs awake.
His eyes blink open. “You’re back.”
“How was he?” I ask, rubbing Simba’s belly.
“Chill.” He stretches his arms over his head, then stills as his eyes widen at the snow-covered window.
“Yeah, six to eight inches expected by morning,” I inform him.
“Whoa. Mind if I stay the night and head home in the morning?”
“All good.” Simba jumps up as I rise. “You know where everything is.”
I head upstairs to change, Simba on my heels.
When I come back down, Josiah joins me in the kitchen as I finish heating up chili.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, burrowing into my hoodie I left on the couch.
I slide him over a bowl. “How’s grad school?”
“Mmm.” His bangs fall forward as he breathes in the chili’s aroma. “You spoil me.” He slides onto a stool.
I blow on my spoon as I lean against the counter. “Have you asked for accommodations?”
He shrugs. “Everyone has ADHD. I don’t need special treatment. I didn’t need it for undergrad.”
I blow out steam as I swallow a spoonful of chili. “I have a teammate”—I take a sip of water—“who struggles with SPD. You know what that is?”
He nods. “Sensory Processing Disorder.”
“Instead of handshakes or butt slaps, he prefers non-touch praise. Head nods, thumbs up, y’know that sorta thing?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles as he chews.
“And when he’s really amped, we hit a special two-step shuffle we made up together instead of a bear hug. He wears noise-canceling headphones before and after the game, and we know to give him space when his ears are covered. No one gives him shit when he skips nights out after a game.”
“And you all are okay with it?”
“Yeah. He’s our boy, and we want to make sure he’s good. And we need him to be able to do his job when it’s game time. You get where I’m going?”
“Yep,” he says, pausing to lick the spoon.
“Ain’t no shame in getting the support you need. We all want you to graduate.”
He sighs. “I knooow.”
“Good.” I smirk at Simba, who’s circling the kitchen for fallen scraps.
“Okay, but all day I’ve been waiting to hear what happened with Arnaz.”
I stiffen, lowering my bowl to the counter. “He, uh, doesn’t date.”
He drops his spoon into the bowl. “He turned you down?”
“Yep.” I refill his bowl and slide it back over. “Thanked me for the cake. Even offered to pay for it.”
“Noo.”
“Yep.”
“Eeek.” His chin sinks into my hoodie. “I’m sorry.”
Yeah, me too.
I rinse out the pot and load it into the dishwasher.
“What about you? How was your date with the artist?”
“Next.” He blows out a breath. “Wanna see my date this weekend?”
I step closer as he holds up a picture of a cute guy in an oversized sweater.
“High school teacher.”
“Handsome,” I observe.
“Wait, look at this one.” He scrolls to a picture of the guy sitting on a couch. “Look at his library collection!”
I grin. “Imagine your libraries together.”
“Stahp! You know it’s literally on my vision board to marry a guy with more books than me.”
I do know that. Back when I was injured, Josiah stopped by with a bag of supplies and covered my floor in magazines, glue sticks, and poster boards.
Next thing I knew, we were making vision boards.
My brother came downstairs and grinned at the big fat “Marry Blue” text block glued to the center of mine .
So corny now that I think about it.
“I got it,” he says when I reach for his bowl to wash it out.
“I’m gonna head up. Need anything?”
He shakes his head as he slides off the stool and bends down to hug Simba goodnight. “I’ll finish reading a few chapters, then sleep.”
Simba whines as he follows me up the steps.
Shoot . I forgot to reorder his dental treats.
“My bad, Sim.” I start the fireplace, then kill the lights before crashing into bed. “I’ll order them now.”
He ignores me, curling up in his bed with his back toward me.
I place the order, then whistle and pat the bed.
He doesn’t move at first, but then he drags himself over.
I turn and scratch behind his ears after he settles away from me on the far end of the bed. “You ever felt kicked in the heart and balls at the same time?”
He nudges me with his wet nose.
“Nah, everyone loves you.”
He turns his head away.
“It’s okay. You can be mad at me. I still love you.”
I lean back and stare into the fire.
“I’m not who you want. I can’t be.”
I can’t place exactly why, of everything Blue said, that’s what’s been on a loop in my mind. It’s the way he said it. His voice sounded…like it was less about whether I believed it, but rather, his disbelief of it.
If someone were to ask me what it is about Blue that has me hooked, I wouldn’t be able to give them a single answer.
I crave planning and direction, and everything about him feels off map.
There’s this pull toward him. Every time we’re in the same building, I have to get close, and the way he goes primal whenever I’m near only heightens my need to be close to him.
I sometimes hold back on the court, doing just enough to protect our house.
Blue is pure instinct. If he senses something he doesn’t like, you see it immediately.
He goes for blood. But it’s different with us.
Yeah, it gets bloody, but it’s not from hate.
Whatever I feel when I’m near him makes him afraid.
I know there’s a deeper reason we fire each other up.
It’s not friction for the sake of friction.
That would be like looking at the thrash of waves and missing the ocean.
Still…
He said no, and even though it feels like someone has taken tweezers to the nerves in my gut, I have to respect that.
I have to fall back.