Offensive Rebound by MJ Fields

Author:MJ Fields [Fields, MJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Self Published
Published: 2017-01-17T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Light

TRAE

THE ARENA ERUPTS IN CHEERS. Hell, even the Nuggets’ fans are on their feet.

I should be eating this shit up, I should, but I hear his fucking jaw flapping.

“Hope you’re happy with yourself!”

I turn around to see Brock limping off the court.

Fucking fraud.

“I’m not happy, Boeheim. I’m ecstatic!” I pound my fist to my chest. “I’m fucking high on hoops and a win!”

I see Courtney and Christa walking toward me with someone I know I should recognize, but it matters fuck not.

I point at her, and then I point at myself.

She looks around to see who’s watching then back at me as she stops a good five feet away.

“Great game, Rhodes!” she yells.

“Was it?”

“Phenomenal.” Her smile is so bright I can’t help ignoring the distance.

“I get it.” I smile back.

Her eyes light up before she looks down then turns to head toward the rest of the team.

I get it. I don’t fucking like it, but I get it.

“Get your asses showered; we have a press conference,” Coach D snaps.

“And then we have drinks,” Courtney says, and the team cheers. Well, most of them, anyway.

***

BACK IN THE LOCKER ROOM, Coach D is pacing, pissed. I have seen it before. Never after a win, though. And I’m pretty fucking sure it has a whole lot to do with me.

I look at Parker, who shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.

“You touched the golden boy,” he explains.

“I’m not thinking about the golden boy. I’m thinking about what comes next.”

“I see how it is, but she’s not yours,” he tosses me back my bullshit.

“She’s about to be.”

With that, I shower quickly but thoroughly. Then I shave my skin smooth for after drink activities, still buzzing from the win.

Grabbing my phone, I send a text home, avoiding Coach D and any other motherfucker who will bring me down.

- The win was for you, my girls.

- Your girls are so proud of you, is my reply.

I follow the team down the corridor to the press room, and when I walk in, cameras flash in my direction. I nod in acknowledgment, looking around and finding Courtney standing in the back of the room, beaming next to her folks, Christa, and the guy who walked on the court with them.

“What can I say?” Coach D begins. “We won a game.”

“First game since the team was formed,” one of the reporters notes.

“Damn good-looking team, but what the hell made you choose that starting line-up?” another interjects.

“All my men are part of this team. All good players. It was an exhibition game. We didn’t want to risk injury, so the coaching staff made some choices.”

I want to cough, bullshit.

“Speaking of injury; how’s the knee, Boeheim? You came down on it pretty hard.”

Boeheim steps up to the mic. “Had worse falls, and I always come out on top.”

“Playing like the 1980’s Detroit Pistons, but against your own team?”

That voice. That face.

Oh, fuck. It’s James Toretto, the guy who ran The Dirt.

“Been a few years since Trae and I have been on the same court.

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