25. Playing the Game
twenty-five
Playing the Game
A t home, getting ready for the big game, I take a hard look at my shaving foam-covered face in the steamy bathroom mirror. My scalp tingles. Reality sets in. This is it.
It’s been years since you played with these guys. What the fuck are you doing?
They’re on the court, either playing or practicing, every day of the year. You’re going to make a royal ass out of yourself tonight.
Dammit .
“Okay, suck it up,” I mutter to myself.
It was Jamarcus’s only condition: If he plays, I play. No backing out. “They better name the fucking fire truck after me,” I tell my reflection in the mirror. “Nobody’s given more to this fundraiser than I have.”
I groan, dropping my head, hiking my shoulders. Except Erika.
Screw it.
“You can’t afford to think about her today. Mind control.” I go back to shaving.
That little stunt she pulled last night—winking at me after she bid on ass wipe? I’ll get her. And Ellis is lucky if the whole coaching staff doesn’t run him through a woodchipper.
“Hottie McShotty!” Jamarcus’ voice booms across the tarmac as he spreads his arms wide and pulls me into a tight backslap. At six-ten, Jay makes me feel petite. He’s got a wingspan that makes defenders rethink their career choice.
We were close back in the day. He’s getting a little gray, which I don’t see on TV.
Greeting him, I ask, “How’s Tiana? The kids?” I met him and the team when they landed at the private airstrip outside of town.
“Awesome, man, my youngest will be taller than me. You doing okay?” He grips my shoulder with a hand the size of a baseball glove, studying me while I study him. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other in over three years. The funeral was the last time.
Born and raised in Atlanta. A couple of years ahead of me at Tennessee. One hell of a good guy. Somewhere, he got the nickname Jet Holloway… but his teammates have always shortened Jamarcus to J. Not even Jay.
“I’m good. Thank you for doing this.”
“No problem, Bro. Our PR people look for goodwill shit like this for us to do, so they can’t say anything when I find one I want to do.
We’re on our way to Charlotte to play the Hornets tomorrow night.
What’d you say, we split into two teams—red jerseys and green jerseys. You’re on my team, like old times.”
“I’m in.” Got no choice.
“You remember the Elevator Doors?”
A slow grin spreads across my face as our gazes join. “Hadn’t thought about that in years.”
J tilts his head. “We’re gonna pull it on ’em tonight for old times’ sake. Me and Dante will be your screen.”
My brows shift high. “You know how long it’s been for me?”
“Like riding a bike, McShotty. But I gotta be honest—it’s gonna be odd as hell playing on a high school court again.” There’s that familiar grin the fans love. “This is gonna be fun.”
“No shit.” An NBA court is ten feet longer than ours. They’ll have to adjust their shots.
“Got TV cameras coming, too.”
A moan escapes my throat. “Great, so the whole world can watch me show my ass.”
He tilts his head back and guffaws at the sky. “Naw. Just Kentucky. You ought to know, the team does a charity event like this, and management’s going to have the news media all over it. Can’t get rid of the fuckers. Come on over and meet everyone.”
Shit. Dammit. Hell.
The thunder of the crowd vibrates into the small dressing room. We’re the red team.
Our opposing team took the girls’ lockers, so it’s just me, J, and about five other guys in here. Seiger Petrovic is a seven-foot blond Serb with a thick accent. Dante Reed is famous for his trash talk, goading his opponents into fouling damn near every game.
Then we’ve got Trey Valencia, J.J. Jefferson, and Connor McBroom.
That puts two of us on the bench at all times. Hope no one fouls out, because we need some bench time. Especially me, since I don’t play every day like they do.
We’re up against Omar Farouk captaining a team. He’s known as The Big O. Omar was a higher draft pick than J, and just as famous.
He’s gonna be tough to guard.
“This place is packed.” Trent had to get a pass to get into the dressing room. “I mean packed with a capital P. Twice as many people as last night. Maybe three times as many.”
My ticker’s doing double-time. This really is it.
“Trent, meet J—Jet, Jamarcus Holloway. J, my assistant Trent Holcomb.”
The kid’s grin stretches across his freckled face, with a twinkle in his light eyes. He’ll tell his grandkids about meeting Jet Holloway someday. “What an honor. Nice to meet you, Mr. Holloway.”
“I’m J to my friends. Kourt’s told me all about you. Played for West Virginia, right?”
Trent cuts his eyes my way. They’re filled with new surprise. The kid doesn’t know I brag about him all the time to anyone but him. “Yessir.”
J says, “Let me tell you, Trent—I wouldn’t be here,” he points at the floor, “if I hadn’t had a good high school coach who cared about me. You remember that. Good coaches are the foundation of this sport. What you do is important.”
It shows in his glow. What J said. Trent is overwhelmed. “Thank you. Well, I’ll see y’all out there in a few. Knock ’em dead.” He looks at me and nods, “Coach.”
“You ready?” J asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
The crowd goes wild as we walk on the court, Jet Holloway and Omar Farouk leading the way—TV cameras rolling, fans cheering, and I’m dumbfounded for a second at the size of the crowd.
The fire department gets all of the proceeds from this, plus the NBA team is matching what we draw on the door. I beat Ellis before we even step onto the court. He’ll know if he’s here.
It was Erika’s idea.
Focus. Can’t go there.
“You ready?” J asks again.
I nod, since I can’t find my voice.