6. Gavin
GAVIN
Sunday afternoon, I’m back home, lying in bed scrolling through my phone, when my teammate, buddy, and roommate, Noah Anderson, appears in the doorway.
“Knock, knock,” he says as he does just that on the open door.
“Hey.” I drop my phone to my chest. “How was the weekend?”
“Good. Killer party at the football house last night. How was camping?” He says the word like it’s an absurd weekend activity.
“It was nice to get away, but I’m glad to be back.” As soon as I say the words, I wonder if they’re true. I’m back but no closer to getting Violet to forgive me.
“And right in time for more drama.” A smirk that’s part concern and part humor crosses his face, and he lifts his phone to show me a news headline I recognize all the way across the room. “Saw Mommy and Daddy are fighting again. Want to talk about it?”
I clench my jaw and give my head a shake. “Definitely not.”
The other reason I wanted to get away this weekend—to avoid the never-ending media coverage of my parents ongoing drama.
He’s quiet a beat, giving me time to reconsider. Noah’s a great roommate, a lot of fun, and just an all-around good guy. Outside of Jenkins, he’s my closest teammate. “Shoot some hoops then?”
“Yeah. Give me five.”
He steps out of my doorway, and I grab my phone to reread the article.
Words like rumors, cheating, and divorce catch my eye and make my head want to explode.
My dad, retired NBA all-star Anthony Leonard, allegedly cheated on my mom, a well-respected women’s college basketball coach, for the entirety of their marriage.
I say allegedly, but I know at least some of it’s true. How much? I’m not sure.
I could ask my dad, but we’re not exactly on speaking terms. I thought after the divorce, things would calm down with the media, but it’s been months since it was finalized, and still, every time he or my mom pops up in the news for something completely unrelated to their relationship, the headlines reappear.
It never fucking stops. A constant reminder that my dad is a cheating piece of shit. Like father, like son.
I toss my phone to the end of the mattress, clench my hands into fists.
I wish punching something would help. Instead, I get to my feet.
My gaze goes straight to the window next to my bed.
My view looks over the fence to our neighbors—to Violet.
She’s in her room, unpacking from the looks of it.
I linger, watching her for a few seconds longer.
Her mouth moves like she’s singing along with music. Her black hair falls past her shoulders and she’s wearing a tank top and short shorts. Violet’s stunning always, but the glimpses of her like this are my favorite.
She stills as if she can feel me watching her, and then looks right at me. I don’t look away. Couldn’t even for a million dollars. Violet lifts a middle finger in my direction and then turns on her heel and goes back to ignoring me.
Practice Monday afternoon is a light scrimmage in preparation for our game against Oregon tomorrow night.
Coach Reynolds paces the sideline, watching us move up and down the court.
He hasn’t said a word in at least ten minutes.
He’s quieter than any other coach I’ve had, more patient.
At the beginning of the season, he was a little more in our faces, but now, he sits back and lets us play, make mistakes, and figure out how to get ourselves back on track.
As the captain of the team, I respect his style and the trust he gives me.
After another five minutes of play, he blows the whistle and walks out to the middle of the court.
We huddle up around him.
“Leonard, Jenkins, that was a nice passing rush to end things. All around, not bad at all for a weekend off. This is it. The final push. We’ve got Oregon tomorrow, Stanford on Friday, and then the PAC-12 tournament next week. Make sure you are getting enough sleep and fueling your body right.”
“Does beer count?” someone asks, and we all laugh.
Coach Reynolds shakes his head, a knowing grin on his face. He was a college basketball player, too, and he doesn’t pretend like he doesn’t know what happens on off nights and weekends.
“If you want to be dragging ass up and down my court, then by all means, go out and party as much as you want. I’ve got plenty of bench for you to sit on.” He laughs lightly. “All right, boys. Get out of here. See you tomorrow.”
Noah catches me as we’re walking to the locker room. “Hideout?”
“Coach literally just told us to get some rest.”
“We will, but we have to eat, right?” He slaps me on the shoulder. “See you there.”
The Hideout is a local restaurant with a big bar area. It’s the unofficial Valley U hangout. The place to go if you want to drink, be seen, and potentially not go home alone.
Jenkins, Noah, and Tommy are already at a booth in the bar area when I arrive.
These three are my roommates. We live together in an off-campus house that was built for basketball players, aptly named The White House because it’s big and white, across from the arena where we practice and play games.
The house has been handed down over the years to upper classmen and starters, and is well-known for all the legendary parties that have been thrown there.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” Tommy says, and slides an empty glass in my direction.
He is always ready to drink, always ready for just about anything, really.
He’s out the rest of the season with an ankle fracture, so I’m not about to get on his case.
We’re having a good season. The past two years, we haven’t made it into the NCAA championship tournament, and it’s the only thing on all our minds this year. Get there, dominate, and win.
“Someone has to make sure you three make it home.” I take the pitcher, sitting in the middle of the table, and pour myself a beer.
Tommy slings an arm along the back of the booth and smirks at me. “I heard you spent the weekend fighting with our neighbor.”
“Not exactly.”
“Bullshit,” Jenkins says.
“Well, no more than usual.”
“She’s hot, I get it, but can you stop pissing her off?” Tommy asks. “She yelled at me yesterday because some girls that came over parked in front of their house.”
Jenkins whistles through his teeth. “She’s very touchy about the parking situation.”
“That’s because people are always blocking their driveway for parties and stuff.
” I find myself defending her. She isn’t wrong, though.
On nights when we have parties, cars line the street, parking anywhere they can find a spot.
It gets out of control. I wouldn’t want to live next door to us either.
“Well, could you just fix it? I know she’s like half my size, but I’m injured, and she scares me.” Tommy gives a little involuntary shudder.
“Yeah,” I say with a chuckle. I’ll get right on that. Like I haven’t been trying to get Violet to stop hating me for the past year.