Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
Avery
It’s only now that I realize I’ve listened to Olive’s music a little too much lately. So much that I’ve forgotten what I used to play when I trained alone.
Back then, I’d switch my brain off and just focus on the feel of the rubber in my palms, the satisfying swish of the ball through the net, and the music thrumming in my ears.
Instead of wasting time trying to remember, I pick a random Hype Up playlist and head to the concrete court.
This place is a lot more run-down than I remember.
Graffiti stains the stands and even the court itself, with potholes in places dangerous enough to snap ankles if you’re not careful.
The chain on the basketball hoop dangles like it’s hanging on for dear life.
One rough tug and it’d probably fall to the ground.
My first shot slips through the hoop easily, rattling the chain. I jog over to collect the ball, glancing down at the phone I left at the base of the hoop.
No notifications. Just as I expected.
For the next hour, I do the same thing. I don’t miss a single shot as the music blares through my noise-canceling headphones, my head fully in the game.
Shoot the ball, collect it, start again.
Shoot.
Shoot.
Shoot.
Every now and then, I check my phone for a message from Olive. When there’s nothing, I keep going like it’s no big deal. I skip the song, set the phone back down, chug some water, and drop the bottle beside it.
The sun is scorching, searing against my sweaty, sunscreen-lathered skin. My singlet’s scrunched up in a ball on the ground. Thankfully, the sun’s starting to set, and shade is creeping across the court.
I like being out of my head. I love playing the game without an audience. Love just taking shots for me. When no one’s around to judge me or make me feel like my life’s going somewhere I know it’s not.
Spending so much time alone, I’ve gotten good at knowing when I’m really by myself—and when someone’s watching.
Like right now.
A wave of dread hits me just as I take the last shot. The ball hits the rim, slides through the hoop, and bounces…bounces…bounces…until it stops.
I don’t rush over to collect it, I barely even move. My feet are pinned to the floor.
I take one headphone off, and hear voices coming from behind me. But when I turn to face them, my panic evaporates.
It’s just a group of young kids, filming me and cheering me on.
Something I haven’t experienced in a long, long time.
"You guys want to play? Two v two?" I ask, scooping up my ball and holding it out in one hand.
The three of them rush toward me, arguing over who gets me on their team until they settle it with a coin toss.
The tall, skinny redhead ends up on my team, grinning big enough to distract me from everything off the court.
I go easy, coaching all three while playing against two. Even with a few quick tips, their game’s already improved.
"Time," one of them pants. "I need water."
He runs to the base of the hoop, grabs his bottle, and chugs it.
Then he calls out, "Jones, someone named Orlando is calling your phone."
"It can wait," I say, tipping my head for him to hurry. "Next team to score wins." My teammate playfully swats my chest.
"Uh… I don’t think it can. He’s calling again." He walks over, holding my phone out.
"What’s up, Orlando? I’m about to destroy these kids in a game at the—"
"An article’s dropping on you, Avery." That’s all he says. Normally, this would be a text, but he sounds worried.
"What is it this time?" I press, walking off to put some space between me and the kids.
"My source wouldn’t say—but she said it’s bad. Really bad, Avery."
I swallow hard, suddenly parched, my lungs fighting just to function.
"Is it about last year? About Noelle?"
I need him to say no. Need him to tell me it’s something completely different.
"I don’t know, Avery."
"What do you know, then, Orlando? You can’t just call and drop that on me without anything else. What am I supposed to do, just sit here and wait for it to fucking happen?" My voice is raised now. The chatter and excitement behind me have vanished.
"All I know is it’s coming. She couldn’t say when, just that it won’t make you look good. And that I need to prep a statement."
I can’t have Noelle’s name anywhere near this.
I won’t.
"I’ll say whatever you tell me to."
***
Ever since I was drafted into the NBA, I’ve been on the top ten lists.
In the first three years of my career, I was one of the top ten rookie players to watch. Over the last three years, I made it to the top three for players overall.
Ryder took the crown, with me in second place.
But that list wasn’t just about what you did on the court. Sure, stats mattered—but so did the kind of guy you were away from the sport.
And until the end of last season, I was good with holding second.
When we lost the championship to the Falcons, sure, I was bummed, but I was happy for them. I know what it takes. They deserved it.
Hell, I had friends on that team I wanted to celebrate with.
I’d told Noelle about the after-party and said she and Leah should come. But Leah had plans and couldn’t make it.
When Ryder, Orlando, and I pulled up to the Cherry Bar, we got waved through the thick red ropes like we were VIP, too.
One look around, told us guys from all over the country were there to celebrate the Falcons. Suddenly, I didn’t care that we weren’t the champions. That we weren’t the ones being celebrated.
Noelle said she’d find her own way there—that I didn’t need to wait. She got there forty-five minutes before I did.
The first thing I did when I got inside was look for her.
Something in my gut felt off.
I’d asked around, but no one seemed to know where she was.
I called her twelve times. Each time, her phone went straight through to voicemail.
Then I saw some young guy coming out of a back room, doing up his belt buckle, and the top button on his shirt, before pulling his Falcons jersey back over his head.
I knew it then.
I fucking knew.
I told Ryder to keep an eye on him, to not let him out of his sight. And when I ran to the room he’d just come out of, I wanted to kill him.
But I couldn’t.
My sister.
Noelle.
On the bed.
Unconscious.
Wearing nothing but her underwear.
I rushed to her, checked for a pulse, just as Orlando burst into the room.
"What the fuck?" he shouted, scrambling for his phone.
I told him no. Said her pulse was strong, she was breathing, but we needed to get her out.
He sprang into action, moved his car around back while I waited with my sister who was slowly coming to.
She went in and out of consciousness a lot.
But my first priority was Noelle. I’d deal with that guy later.
I’d make sure of it.
With Orlando’s help, I got her dressed and into the car. Then I found Ryder and told him what I’d seen.
He lunged for the guy without thinking about the consequences, but I had.
I’d spent the time alone with my sister, thinking about what would happen if I handled it the way I wanted to.
And I realized—I didn’t care.
So, I broke his nose. And his jaw. And my wrist when my third and final punch missed and hit concrete instead of his face.
The guy—some twenty-year-old from Texas named Miles Baker—had his membership terminated. But the Association swept it under the rug.
He was underage. At a party they paid for, to celebrate the league champions. They couldn’t have word get out about it.
We took Noelle to the hospital. They ran blood tests. She had a date rape drug in her system. She agreed to a sexual assault exam, but it came back clean.
But the drug was still there. Which meant Miles intended to.
Maybe he got interrupted. Maybe she started coming to before he could do what he meant to. I don’t know.
Miles tried to press charges against me for assult, but Orlando took care of it—paid him off, said it was easier that way.
It was my word against his. Nobody saw him leave that room, and everyone saw me take matters into my own hands. It wasn’t a battle worth fighting, or one I’d win.
It spread like wildfire that I attacked a fan in a jealous fit of rage.
That I couldn’t handle losing.
That a super-fan from the winning team said the wrong thing, and I snapped.
I let them all believe it.
I would never ever tell anybody what happened to my sister that night.
Even if it meant losing everything I worked so hard to build.
And the fact that it might all come out—that everyone could know—makes me feel sick.