35. Salem
SALEM
S omething’s off with Blue. I can feel it.
His texts over the last two weeks have been off.
Every time I ask him a question about himself, he deflects by asking one back.
I caught a few of his games on TV, and in each, he looked weary—dark circles around his eyes, sluggish energy, averaging fewer points per game.
I keep feeling like I should do more, so he knows I’m here for him.
He’s got to know. Right?
Damn, I miss him.
The private investigator still hasn’t caught a lead on my brother, which makes no sense. I had this month’s bake-off with my dad to keep me distracted, otherwise… hff .
“Psst, peep Easton.” Cillian nudges my arm and nods to the new transfer, tatted from the neck down, raven hair, mean-mugging someone in the stands as Memphis’ shooting guard heads to the free throw line for a foul Easton caused.
We woke up last week and found out that Easton was on a flight to don a Brooklyn jersey.
The dynamic duo of Easton and Ray had officially separated.
Best friends since childhood, they had the perfect contrast of power and finesse.
Though lately their off-court tension has made headlines, and there were rumors of contract disputes.
Noise aside, we could use the defensive help.
He isn’t much of a talker. I approached him during his first practice to welcome him to the team. He sized me up, and when I asked if he had questions, he grunted, threw on his headphones, and stared straight ahead like I wasn’t there.
“Come on,” Cillian whispers. “One more foul and I win a tres leches cake.”
I still owe him his millionaire’s shortbread, so that makes two bakes if I lose. I’m good for it, though.
I scan the crowd for the orange Hey, Bestie! banner I saw at the start of the game.
“Jones. Break time’s over,” Coach yells over her shoulder. “Get in there before Easton gets himself suspended.”
I hop to my feet and lose the towel around my neck.
“Coach, keep him in. I’m close to making—” Cillian starts.
“Screw your bet,” Coach cuts him off, making the entire bench snicker.
Easton ignores me as he skulks past toward the bench. I don’t get his strategy. For half the damn year, all we’ve got is each other on the road. Why make it harder on himself?
“Yo! I got ball,” I yell as I launch toward my mark, and the crowd gets loud for me.
“You wanna grab a drink?” Cillian asks.
“Can’t.” I shrug on my coat and unlock my phone. “I’m meeting up with Blue’s”—I click on Josiah’s text—“I mean Arnaz’s…”