Chapter 1
RAWLEY
“Oh shit, that’s Rawley Battle.”
I walk into the Hawkins Basketball Gym for the first time in almost a year. Over a dozen heads swivel my way, their eyes going wide as they recognize me.
Yeah, it was probably stupid to think I could sneak into a game unnoticed.
Hawkins is a private gym just for hoops, and several elite players in Orlando work out here. But that also includes high school and college prospects who are young enough to lack chill when a surprise guest walks through the door.
I’ve got to guess it’s rare for an NFL player to show up. Landon connected with the guy who owns this place, Reggie, when I started visiting him in Orlando two years ago. My brother thought it’d be a good way to stay out of trouble with one of my favorite non-football activities.
I haven’t stopped in since my visit last summer. But when I texted Reggie this morning, he immediately invited me to play in their open gym pickup game.
Despite the eyes tracking me, I step further inside the gym.
Fuck it, I want to play. I’m tired of thinking about the draft, interviews, and my rookie contract negotiations. I need some fun to distract me.
“Hey, Reggie,” I say as I approach him.
He takes a step toward me as our eyes meet. He’s tall, close to my six-foot-five height, and appears to be in his mid-thirties.
“Rawley, great to see you again.” He holds out his hand.
As I shake it, I look over the eight courts, most of which have just a player or two occupying them.
But there’s a cluster of guys, some teenagers among them, watching us on the court where Reggie walked over from. No doubt the group for the pickup game.
“Thanks for letting me join today.”
He grins. “You still know how to hoop? Not just catch a football?”
It’s officially been four days since the NFL draft, and I’m already here in Orlando permanently, leaving Texas behind despite not graduating yet. Like Landon, the NFL has always been my dream, not a college degree.
One passion he and I don’t share is basketball. He’s a football-or-bust guy, whereas I’ve always loved playing hoops too.
I don’t have the skills for the NBA, obviously, but I welcome the challenge of playing with some of the best young local guys.
“I can keep up.”
“Well, you came on a good day.” Reggie waves to the other players, most of whom are still observing us speak. “We have enough people here to play full court, five on five.”
“Awesome.”
“Now, don’t do anything crazy and get injured on us,” Reggie says, only half joking. “The Waves need you.”
“I know, I know.” I chuckle.
Not that I’m under contract yet. The NFL has pretty tight restrictions on rookie salaries, but much to my agent’s annoyance, the Waves are trying to slow-pay portions of my signing bonus.
“Come on over,” Reggie instructs, and we head to where everyone’s started shooting to warm up.
“So as you know, I played in college, and I coach at one of the local high schools now. Some of the guys here are my current players, some are recent graduates. And then Mikhail”—he points to a forty-something man who’s probably six foot seven—“he played overseas until he got old.”
“Hey,” Mikhail interjects. “Watch who you’re calling old.” They both have wide grins on their faces, and I suspect this is a well-worn joke between them.
“I’m Chris,” says a new voice. He looks to be around nineteen, like my brother Connor. “It sucked that you didn’t win the Heisman, but we’re really glad we got you here at the Waves.”
He sounds nervous to talk to me, and I appreciate the sentiment, so I give him an easy smile.
“Thanks, man. It was cool to be a finalist even if I didn’t win.” The Heisman is the top individual award in college football and rarely goes to wide receivers, so there’s truth to my words. I was happy to make it that far.
And despite the media obsession over my so-called “party guy” reputation, I fought my ass off during my last year at Texas to load up my stat line and be a good teammate. My efforts were rewarded with a Heisman nomination, if not my number in the draft.
Dropping in the draft did help me in another way, by landing me here in Orlando where Landon and Grace live. My older siblings aren’t perfect, but they’re grounding forces for me.
“Okay, well let’s get the first game going,” Reggie says before dividing us up. There are seven guys on one side and six on the other, so there will be substitutes along the way.
“Rawley, you’ll start. What position do you like to play?”
“Small forward or shooting guard—”
Behind me, I hear the door to the gym squeak open.
“Oh, whoa,” someone says. Chris, I think.
“Hi, sorry to interrupt, but is one of you, Reggie?” a female voice comes behind us.
I turn around and—holy shit—it’s Avery Parker.
A University of Connecticut basketball star who led them to the last two NCAA titles and won every imaginable D1 player-of-the-year award. Who just this month was the WNBA top draft pick, now a rookie herself for the Orlando Surge WNBA team.
Not to mention, the daughter of Boston NBA legend Paul Parker and the younger sister of current NBA All-Star, Dylan Parker.
I had posters of Paul “Swish” Parker growing up, messily taped on my wall during middle school. I must have watched his highlights a thousand times over the years on NBA “greatest moments” videos.
Only now, I’m wondering if I should be adding a poster of Avery to my walls.
Because beyond her insane basketball skills, she’s fucking gorgeous.
Long black shiny hair, porcelain skin, high cheekbones, matched with a tall, lean frame, maybe half a foot shorter than me. Her cut arms and abs are apparent in a Surge halter tee.
She also has a confident, unaffected look on her face, her brown eyes sharp and focused.
I’ve seen snippets of her now and then on sports news shows, but nothing made an impression like being in her presence.
Reggie moves toward where she stands, not looking surprised to see her, and greets her with a big smile.
“Hi, I’m Reggie. We’re so glad to have you in Orlando.” He sounds more excited than when he welcomed me. I can’t blame him.
“Happy to be here,” she replies. “Thanks for letting me use the gym to shoot. My trainer said it’s the best one around, and it’s really close to my place.”
“No worries, it’s an honor. We’re actually about to play five on five if you want to join us? It’s mainly local prospects, as well as some former players.”
Avery surveys the group and makes her mind up quickly. “Sure. That’ll be more fun anyway.”
Reggie nods and glances at me, then back to Avery, clicking his tongue in disbelief.
“Damn, the two biggest draft picks in recent history for Orlando, and you’re both at my gym at the same time? That’s a little wild.”
“It kinda is,” I acknowledge. What are the chances?
Feeling awkward about having stared at them while they talked, I step toward Avery.
“Hi, I’m Rawley.”
She examines me, cool but not unfriendly. I honestly can’t tell what’s going on in her mind. Does she even know who I am?
“Avery. Nice to meet you.” Her voice is melodic and rich, but again, hard to read.
“Who’s even going to guard her?” says a voice from the larger group.
I understand the fear. Anyone who watched March Madness the last couple of years knows that Avery has been one of the best shooters in women’s college basketball. She’s also the same height as a lot of the guys here.
Her lips turn up. Interesting—she doesn’t mind the compliment of being intimidating to them.
I twist to Reggie. “I will. Put us on opposite teams.”
Then I turn back to Avery and wink, deliberately stirring the pot to see how she reacts.
She gives a small roll of her eyes, but her expression fades quickly to neutral.
Reggie nods, then introduces Avery to the group she will play with.
“Aren’t you in preseason?” I hear one of the guys on her team ask.
“We start training camp tomorrow,” she explains. “And I was getting antsy sitting at home.”
“Well, I know our strategy,” he replies. “Get the ball to you.”
Noted—I guess I’ll need to step up my defense. I’m not exactly blessed with high caliber defensive skills, but I don’t want to be embarrassed too badly.
The game starts a couple of minutes later and yup, the ball’s passed to Avery quickly.
We’re right inside the three-point line, so a shot from here would be over twenty feet. Still, based on what I know about her, she can make a bucket from that distance easily, so I stay glued to her.
Only she outsmarts me, faking me out with a hip swivel that makes it seem like she’s going left. A split second later, when she starts driving to the basket from her right instead, I hear myself whisper, “Fuck.”
She makes the layup, none of the other guys reacting fast enough to guard her.
As Avery walks back my way, there’s a gleam in her eye. She knows she cooked me.
“Nice play, Rook,” I tease.
“Try to keep up, Rook,” she says back, a trace of humor in her voice for the first time.
Oh, so it’s going to be like that with her today. At least she knows who I am, I realize.
I lock in mentally. Let’s have some fun.
When she gets the ball next, I try to use my extra inches to my advantage. Arms extended, I keep my feet and legs in a more active position so I can pivot as needed to adjust to her moves. Box her in.
Yet, she slips past me after an absolutely sick dribble move that throws me slightly off-balance. And again, no one else can do anything before she’s dropped the ball in the hoop.
“Is this even fair?” whines one of the guys on my team.
“Yeah, it is,” I say to him in a stony voice. I bet he wouldn’t have said that if she weren’t a woman. If I were the one smoking them, a male pro athlete, they’d probably just be saying how cool it is.
Still, I’m not ready to concede she can’t be stopped.
“Hey, Chris.” I use my hand to wave him over. He’s also on my team.
I keep my voice low as I give him some instructions. “Come off your man if Avery gets the ball. Double team her with me.”
“Yeah, okay.” He looks excited at the marching orders.