46. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“ Media ”
Print lasts forever, they say.
Well, then, so must hate too.
They pick, prod, and flay.
And reveal the wit of fools.
“ B reathe with me,” Sid says while I’m stretching out my neck and bouncing on my heels.
He sucks in air like he’s pulling through an imaginary straw, holds, then releases it. He does it again, nodding on the hold for me to join him.
“Wait, I need in,” Nick says, tossing his phone onto his shelf and then jogging over.
“Me too,” Wes calls out, rolling over in his chair.
For Christ’s sake.
I drop my heels and drag in a long breath.
By the fourth round, most of the guys have joined in.
Coach enters, and instead of kicking off his pre-game speech, he nudges Aiden and the rest of the coaching staff to join in.
“Let’s go,” he says when we’re done.
What?
“No speech?” Johan asks.
“He just got us all locked in.” Coach nods to Sid. “When your tank starts emptying, come back to this”—he pulls in a breath and releases it—“and call on your power. Alright?” He reaches his hand in. “Royals on three.”
I exit the tunnel and spot Salem shooting a corner three with his hoodie up and headphones on.
“Where you going?” Sid asks, stepping in front of me.
“I’ll be back.” I dart sideways.
“Hold up. Peep where you are.”
I look around to find I’m surrounded by light blue and gold Lions jerseys.
We’re supposed to warm up on the side of the court that’s opposite our bench, and my foot’s an inch away from crossing onto the Lions’ warm-up side.
Shit. I step back, shaking my head. “My bad.”
Salem turns and freezes midcross over, sending the ball bouncing away. Cillian steps in front of him, breaking our stare.
Sid looks over his shoulder, catching his glare. “You good?”
“He keeps his eyes trained that way, and we’re straight,” Cillian retorts.
“Nah.” Sid’s gravelly voice hardens. “This our house.”
Cillian’s lips part in a dark grin. “We’ll see.”
“It’s gonna be that kind of night,” I murmur.
Sid waves that off. “It’s whatever kind of night we say it is. Let’s get it.”
It is that kind of night.
The Lions are lighting us up like it’s the fourth quarter of game seven of the Finals. We’re down eight points with five minutes left in the second quarter.
Sid and Cillian already collected double technical fouls when Cillian tried to shove Sid into the stands after he attempted a reverse layup and got stripped of the ball. Before he could race away, Sid yanked him by his jersey and flung his ass to the floor in front of the photographers.
The crowd loved it, but if the air was thick with tension before, now it’s so heavy, we’re getting crushed under it.
Nick presses Zyair as he reads the floor for a pass. I close in on Onyx, who’s wide open and signaling for the ball.
Zyair lobs it toward him. Reading the arc—it’s too short—I kick up my speed. Onyx reads it, too, but by the time his heels lift, I’m already slipping past him, intercepting the ball.
I race toward the rim and lift off for a dunk when a light blue and gold blur hovers in front of the rim and clobbers the ball across the court.
I land, chest heaving, and wipe the sweat from my eyes, bringing the blur into focus. Salem’s glare pans the stands, like the whole arena’s on his shit list, before striding away like he’s on the hunt.
That’s the third time he’s blocked my shot. No eye contact or shit-talking. It’s like I’m invisible.
I shake it off again and keep my head in the game.
Sid returns the favor by blocking Zyair’s layup.
Salem and Sid square up on our next possession. Sid dribbles slowly as he advances, pausing like he’s about to shoot, eyes the rim, then launches left with a swift crossover. Salem buys the fake, shifting right. Sid attacks before Salem recovers and fires a no-look, behind-the-back pass to me.
Double-clutching the ball, I explode toward the rim, veer left, then sidestep right to shake Cillian before launching through the air.
One second, there’s a clear lane to release an easy floater, then the next, Ezekiel and Zyair swarm in and mob me.
Ezekiel denies the shot too hard, forcing Zyair to scramble for the ball before it’s knocked out of bounds.
He bats it in, and it ricochets off my leg and back out of bounds, securing the Lions the next possession since my leg is the last to touch it.
Nick forces Zeke to turn over the ball. I dive for it at the same time as Cillian. Beating him to it, I roll to my back and wing it to Sid, but Salem intercepts and lobs it to Onyx, who makes a fast break and windmill dunks it in, making our crowd lose their shit.
“Hear that?” Cillian sneers, cranking his head in Sid’s direction. “Whose house is it now?”
Sid and I lock eyes.
Yeah, time to light them the fuck up.
Onyx can’t get an open look thanks to Nick’s tight defense, so he gets off the ball to Cillian, which makes no sense since Sid’s locking him out.
Salem, who’s wide open, gestures for the ball.
I transition to defend him. Throwing a side-eye my way, he books it as I draw near.
He pings to the opposite wing, but I’m on him before he can turn and get into position to catch and shoot a corner three.
It’s the first time we’re one-on-one for the night. Not for my lack of trying. Every time I’ve moved toward him, I’m double-teamed.
Squatting low, I angle to keep my eyes on the ball. When my hand grazes his hip, he stiffens. I push forward, eating up the space he tries to create, and turn to face him. “Can we talk after?”
His jaw tics as he stares straight ahead.
“Just give me five?—”
“Don’t,” he grits out.
The arena quakes as the crowd explodes. I whip around to find Ussef hanging off the rim.
The crowd’s so loud it almost drowns out the halftime buzzer.
“Hey, wait.” I race to catch up with him.
He ignores me and keeps walking until he disappears into the tunnel.
Damn.