“Of course it is.”
“Listen, we're not solving it tonight. How long do we actually have to figure this out?”
“Camp's in June. They want an answer by the end of the season.”
“So eight weeks.”
“Give or take.”
She nods, and I watch her set the eight-week timer in her head. It's going to keep her up at night…or at least it’s going to me up.
“So we've got eight weeks,” I say, “to quietly love on each other.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Loving on each other?”
“That’s what I’m doing,” I tell her.
“This is risky, Dixon.”
“It’s too late to assess risk. You belong to me now, and I won’t let you go. We just can’t slip up, and shit will be fine.” I lean back on the pillow and pull her down with me, slow, so she comes if she wants to and stays put if she doesn't. She wants to. “Tonight, though, there's no scout, no Coach, no more kids in cars. Tonight it's just us and a giant TV. We deserve it.”
She settles into my side, on purpose, which means more than it would out of anybody.
“One more night,” she says.
I shudder at her statement. One more night? I want all the fucking nights. But I know it’s complicated, so I leave it there for now.
“At least.”
Over us, the show keeps going, enormous and silent. There are two strangers on a fifty-foot screen getting a love story with hot tubs and roses, while I feel the next eight weeks start closing in, quiet, an inch at a time.
Jasmine
My father calls me into his office at seven, which is never good. He probably wants to give me an assignment I most likely won’t want.
“Sit.” He points to the chair opposite his desk. I sit.
“The Carolina thing is real.” He slides a folder across the desk. I act surprised. “They want Adams. Camp this summer, contract after, the whole package, contingent on him finishing the season without an incident.” Two taps on the folder. “Which is where you come in.”
“I already run his conduct review.”
“Now you run all of him.” He leans back. “Academic checks, anger management attendance, every practice, every game, every interaction in this building that could turn into a problem. Now, let me be clear, we’ve always run an ethical program here. If some shit happens, you report it like you always have, BUT if he raises his voice at a vending machine, I’m hoping you will see and address it before it lands on my desk and I have to deal with it.”
“What is with you and this kid?”
“Every player I send to the pros means more prestige and money for our program, Jasmine. And Caleb is one of the most valuable players to walk through that door in ten years, but he's also a lit match. I'm trusting you to carry him to June without letting him catch fire.”
“That's a lot of supervision for one player.”
“It's not supervision. It's protection.” Then he says the thing that empties the room of air. “You're the only one on staff I'd put on him. You want to know why?”
“Why?”
“Everybody else wants something from him. The assistants want him to like them. The trainers want to be his guy. The freshmen want to stand close enough to him to feel important.” He nods at me like he's pinning on a medal. “Not you. You don't get charmed. You don't get attached. He's a case to you and nothing else, and that's exactly what the kid needs. Somebody who can see him clearly and feel nothing doing it. It's the thing you've always been best at. Keeping your distance.”
I have a face I built over twenty-three years for times like this, and I have never leaned on it as hard as I do now. I have to, since my father admires me for not loving the person I love more than I've loved anything in my life.
“And if I can’t?” I ask, just to test the waters. “Keep the distance, I mean.”
