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I stop that line of thought in its tracks, scrubbing a palm across my face and forcing myself to focus on the books I’m looking at instead. I grab the two I think I’ll need tonight and shove them into my backpack.
Today is a day I’ve been looking forward to for months. It’s the start of the basketball season, the first practice of what will be many before we win a state championship or lose trying.
I’ve barely spared a thought about basketball all day. Cassia has more power over me than I realized.
I wasn’t planning for things between us to go as far as they did. I was planning to kiss her, since I hadn’t the Friday before. Prove to her the past weekend was more than a one-off.
Confirm that there’s something still between us, even if she wants to pretend otherwise. Ironic, since I’ve spent a good chunk of time pretending too.
I wasn’t expecting her to crawl on top of me. To be so responsive. I’d never gone down on a girl before. I’m not a total asshole in bed—I always make sure she gets off—but I’ve never prioritized someone else’s pleasure.
Cassia said I don’t want to know what she’s done with other guys—but she’s wrong. I do. Some masochistic, caveman part of me wants to replace every experience she’s had with memories of me instead.
“You good, Adams?” Finn asks as we enter the locker room. “You’ve been distracted all day.”
“Yeah. I just… This season isit, you know?”
It’s not the only thing I’m thinking about, but it’s not a lie. I am stressed about it. What it will mean for my family if I have options—my dad changing careers to come home or my sister left alone. What it will mean for my future if I don’t get a college degree.
Finn’s expression turns serious for a minute. “Yeah, I know.”
But he doesn’t, not really. He doesn’t have to worry. His family is loaded. I don’t think Finn evenwantsto play ball in college. Whatever comes from this season won’t have the same consequences for him as they will for me.
The locker room is already full when we arrive. I see all the guys on the team regularly. At parties and in shared classes. Most of them show up to the old court for pickup games on the weekends too. But there’s something different about being gathered together during the season, a heightened sense of comradery and anticipation.
I nod to the teammates I pass as I head toward my usual locker. It’s right next to Jordan Eaton’s. He bumps fists, thenturns back to telling a few of the guys about the girl from Ridgemont he hooked up with this past weekend.
Ben Howard is part of his audience, and I hope he isn’t listening to any of Jordan’s advice too closely, especially if he’s got a thing with Cassia’s little sister. The protective urges I have toward Maggie are nowhere near as strong as how I feel about Cassia or Sydney, but they’re there. In my head, Maggie is still a little kid.
I finish changing into my practice gear and head straight into the gym. Coach Benson is already standing with Mr. Williams, who is officially a teacher in the arts department and unofficially our assistant coach. He helps out when he can, running a second set of drills for the JV guys and assisting with scheduling our season.
Coach Benson gives me a nod of acknowledgment that I return. Mr. Williams is busy writing something on a clipboard. I head straight for the rack of basketballs, feeling better once I have the familiar weight of the rough rubber in my hands. I dribble down the court to the opposite end, savoring the rhythmic smack of the ball against the hardwood.
There’s still a prickle of anxiety in my chest. A reminder that the sphere I’m bouncing is my ticket to something else. Rather than just excitement to be playing, there’s apprehension as well. Pressure.
I stop at the foul line and start shooting, sending the ball through the hoop over and over again. I haven’t missed one, when Coach Benson calls us all over to the bleachers. He’s the type of coach who encourages dedication out of his players, rather than demands it. He takes the sport seriously but doesn’t insinuate the sun won’t rise the following day if we lose a single game.
I take one half-court Hail Mary shot as I follow the rest of the team over to the blue and yellow bleachers that take up one wallof the gymnasium. I make it, prompting awed looks from some of the younger guys. Mark rolls his eyes as I drop down on the bleachers beside him.
Coach Benson begins by introducing the new members of the team, all of which I met. Then he launches into his expectations for the season. It’s a speech I’ve already heard three times now. I zone out, more focused on playing with a stray thread on the hem of my mesh shorts.
Once Coach starts discussing the start of the season, I perk up. He outlines the schedule I have memorized, including our practices and weight sessions. Team dinners and away games. We’ll have a couple of weeks of straight practice before our schedule picks up, just before winter break.
My dad promised he’d be back for Thanksgiving and the week after, meaning he’ll have a chance to see me play for the first time in over a year. He isn’t the most athletic, his lifestyle of long hours on the road not really allowing for any sort of regular exercise routine, but he’s always been supportive of my pursuits. And despite maintaining college is a possibility regardless of whether or not I get a basketball scholarship, I know it will be a big relief to him if I do.
Coach’s talk ends and the guys scramble to stand, all eager to actually get out on the court. Today is sure to be a test, a rigorous workout to let us all know what is expected during the season. The most accurate shot in the world won’t matter if the other team maintains possession the whole game because you can’t keep pace.
“Adams. One minute.”
I sit back down, watching the rest of the guys follow Mr. Williams over to the center of the court and start stretching. It looks like we’ll be running first thing. Suicides, if I had to guess.
Coach studies me, rubbing one hand across the gray stubble that always peppers his jawline. “Ready for this, Adams?”
“Yeah, I am, Coach.”
He nods. “Grades are good?”
“Yep.”
