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Brooke shows him where to go, eyeing up his company. “It was a plus-one.”
“I play basketball. I count in twos, baby.”
The girls laugh, but Brooke rolls her eyes.
“Kyle’s what I thought players would be like,” Brooke confides when she finds me in the corner.
“He’s getting more out of control every day,” I answer.
“What do you mean?”
It’s not like me to talk trash about my group, but Brooke is an insider. She gets it.
“He looks off the younger guys who’re in a better scoring position. Skips defensive coverages altogether. Bails on tape sessions with weak-ass excuses.”
“The other guys think so too?” she asks.
“The other guys think what?” Miles asks, appearing at her shoulder from nowhere.
“Kyle,” I say.
“He’s not the easiest. But he scores points.”
He continues on his way, but Brooke lingers, arms folded as she watches Kyle and the girls.
“I don’t like the way he cornered her at his Halloween party and hit on her. She was super uncomfortable.”
“Are you serious?”
Brooke’s eyes widen. “You didn’t know.”
Rage rises up from deep in my gut.
Abandoning Brooke and her protests, I cross to Kyle, ignoring the women at his side. “You go near Nova again, you’ll be out of the game longer than Coach.”
“Whatever she said, it’s lies. I didn’t fucking touch her.”
I hit him.
Kyle trips backward, reeling. Then he hits me back. I drop my shoulder and run at him, shoving him into the table, which cracks under his weight. He lands in the middle of the cake.
Nova gasps in disbelief. “What the hell is going on?”
Upstairs, the baby starts crying.
* * *
“I didn’t think we’d be doing this. Especially off the court,” Coach says.
I’m in the kitchen, braced against the marble island.
Kyle’s in the other room, nursing a black eye with the help of his two girls.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Nova murmurs, holding an ice pack to my swelling knuckles. “I know you’ve been having trouble in games and practice, but why would you hit him?”
“Brooke told me what he said to you.”
Her expression hardens. “I handled it.”
