Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Avery
Avery Jones: Overly protective or pretentious bully?
It seems the New York Raptors player cannot walk away from a fight, no matter how hard he tries.
But is he really trying, or is he going out of his way to cause more harm than necessary?
A witness claims Jones (pictured above) approached a man waiting in line for a picture with Olive Herring (pictured left), and Avery went into a jealous fit of rage.
"One minute we were all waiting for a photo, and the next, Avery had his hands around his throat," the witness told Choice Magazine. We have reached out to both Herring and Jones’ teams, but neither seems to have a comment at this time.
This comes just days after Olive Herring was spotted courtside at Jones’ recent home game.
Could something be brewing between the two?
What reason do you think Avery Jones could possibly have for attacking the man unprovoked?
Leave your comments below.
Click the link in our bio to find out more.
***
I press the button on the side of my phone, and the screen turns black.
I have no desire to go to the link in their bio. I do not need to find out their thoughts on the situation or their pathetic reasoning.
I don’t care to read through the comments and find out people think I’m an aggressive asshole. I already know it. They tell me every chance they get.
I’m a basketball player, and she’s a musician. Anybody with a brain could figure that out. But what they can’t understand is why I came to her defense the way I did.
I don’t even have the answer to that.
My phone vibrates against my mattress, Orlando’s name on the screen, and I sigh, swiping to answer.
"What’s going on?" I ask, knowing with absolute certainty what he’s called to talk about.
"Did you see it?" he asks, getting right to the point, and I force myself to sit upright in my bed, exhaling a deep breath.
"Which one?" I tease, but my joke falls flat. It’s hard to find humor in something that feels so wrong.
"I’m dealing with it," he assures me, and I shake my head. He’s always ‘dealing with it’. Kicking the comforter off my legs, I drag myself out of bed and head toward my bathroom. "Do you trust me?" he asks as I turn the water on for my morning shower.
"Do I have a choice?"
"That’s the spirit. See you tonight." The line goes dead.
I stare at my blank screen long enough to see my reflection staring back, and I swear, I note the disappointment on my face.
I open up the article again, zooming in on the picture of Olive, her glaring directed right at me.
I remember that moment when she told me she had it handled. And going by the death stare in the picture, she very well might have ripped his jugular out and fed it to the crowd. But I didn’t want to stand on the sidelines long enough to find out.
I lock my phone, placing it down onto the stone vanity in my bathroom, and step into the stream flowing from my shower head.
The season feels like it’s barely started, and I’m already all over the news.
I know I still have time to turn it around before the season ends, but fuck, it just doesn’t seem worth it anymore.
I will be at my best for our next game; if I’m not, I’ll force myself to be.
The press can hound me, they can try to break me, but I won’t let them.
I can’t.
This is my final season, after all. I cannot let them win.
***
Every year, the Youth Basketball Association for Girls and Boys hosts a charity event to raise money.
For my charity.
I created it not long after I was drafted to the NBA.
Growing up with teen parents in a town where good opportunities were difficult to come by, and expensive to pay for, you learn to work hard and hustle.
I knew very early on that if I ever ‘made it’, I’d give back and help kids growing up the way I did.
It’s been pretty successful so far, with a handful of our kids getting into their dream schools, some even getting drafted into the NBA.
The charity raises money to cover scholarships for basketball-focused colleges, books, food, clothing, tutors, and on-campus living. It also gives them access to training facilities, the kind they’d never have without help, coaches included.
It’s an association run by Orlando and owned by me. He handles the business side of things, and I pay for it. I have too much money, and now, thanks to the Youth Basketball Association for Girls and Boys, I finally have a place to put it to good use.
It’s the one thing in my life that makes this feel like it matters. The money, the spotlight, the pressure, all of it. Maybe I was given more than I needed, so I could do something with it. And honestly, that’s enough for me.
I keep my name out of it. Always have.
Sure, I show up when they need "star power", like tonight. But mostly, I’d rather the focus stay on the kids.
The room’s full of money. Designer gowns, tailored suits, the quiet luxury that screams if you know where to look.
I should feel at home here.
But I don’t. Not even close.
Families, artists, and local businesses have donated everything from original art to jewelry, to an all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas.
The kind of stuff most people wouldn’t splurge on.
But when it’s for a good cause, spending big feels like the right thing to do.
"If everybody could be seated, the auction is about to begin." An unfamiliar voice sounds through the speakers overhead, delicate and dainty, yet demanding everyone’s attention. They all head to their designated seats, while I’m already at my table. Have been since I arrived.
I came alone tonight.
Okay, technically not alone. Ryder always comes with me to this thing, throws down a shitload of money, plays the good wingman.
But he’s late. So for now, I’m flying solo.
Not that the woman across from me seems to mind.
Her wide, green eyes are locked on mine while she licks her lips every two seconds.
Either she wants to fuck me...or she’s in desperate need of Chapstick.
I’m hoping for the latter.
She also looks about twenty years older than me, the guy beside her even older, and too busy to notice how she winked in my direction.
I shudder and look away.
Orlando kicks things off, thanking everybody for their generous contributions tonight, looking as comfortable as ever on stage as he makes his speech.
He talks about the kids, and how many we’ve officially been able to send to College on full-ride scholarships. His eyes land on me quickly, before he continues his spiel.
While everybody collectively applauds our achievements, the first auction piece is placed center stage. Orlando opens up the bidding, beginning with a painted portrait of…is that a horse?
No, a camel?
What is that?
"Five thousand dollars," I hear Ryder call out as he makes his way to our table, better late than never, but always willing to empty his pockets.
Orlando points at Ryder before he scans the room, asking for higher bidders.
The painting of the horse-camel sells for twelve thousand dollars.
Orlando moves like he was born to do this. Charming, composed, and in complete control.
By the time the stage is cleared, we’ve raised nearly half a million dollars.
His jacket’s off now, sleeves rolled, glasses slipping slightly down his nose.
Calm and collected. Like, this isn’t the most exhausting night of the year for him. Not that he would ever let it show.
"Normally, my good friend and client Avery Jones donates something for the bidding," Orlando says, and my stomach drops.
A hundred heads turn toward me like someone just announced I was giving away a kidney.
And for a second, I forget how lungs are supposed to work.
I pull at my collar to loosen my tie around my neck, but with no luck. The air is suddenly thick, like I’m breathing through fog.
"But this year, I told him not to worry about it. Told him I had it under control."
The crowd buzzes. Speculating. Excited.
I sink deeper into my seat, wishing I could disappear until this whole damn thing blows over.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight, you will be bidding on a date with none other than the man himself, Avery Jones."
Oh, fuck me.
I bury my face in my hands, my elbows colliding with the table, making a loud crashing sound that is thankfully drowned out by the overwhelming sound of women screeching.
Not screaming.
Screeching.
They sound like a ravenous pack of fucking hyenas.
I’m officially terrified for my life.
All for the charity, all for the charity. I repeat it like a mantra in my head until it starts to feel a little more normal, and less like my worst possible nightmare.
"Not only will you get alone time with New York’s hottest bad boy," Orlando says once the cheering subsides, "but you will also be rewarded with…"
I zone out. I cannot bring myself to hear the rest of his sentence. I’m about to live in it, for Christ sake.
Why force it on me twice?
"Fifty thousand dollars," the older woman directly in front of me raises her paddle before turning back to face me, sending another wink my way. The man next to her visibly pales.
How much?
Yet, before I can fully comprehend what is happening, another voice sounds, making every single person in the room gasp.
"One hundred thousand dollars."