Slammed (2 page)

“Lucy!”

Amber tugs my side, but it’s too late. I look up just as a giant orange blob collides with my head.

*

My eyes open and shut, open and shut. I can feel my head, but that’s it. If I have a body, it’s somewhere else.

I’m lying down, changing rooms maybe. No, some kind of medical center with ghastly white florescent lighting.

My skull feels like it’s been run through a wood chipper. All I want to do is sleep.

I try to sit up, but a thick arm presses me back down. I look up through blurry vision and I think it’s him, Nate Compton, but I can’t be sure. All I get is an outline, that one curl of hair hanging between us.

“You,” I breathe out, just as the need to sleep overwhelms me.

NATE

“You better watch where you’re stepping, pretty boy.”

It would seem my fellow teammate and captain, Charleston Xavier the Third, isn’t too pleased about being dunked on. He prods me again in the chest, hard. “What, too busy sucking the Dean’s dick to speak?”

I could end this guy. I know his type. Daddy’s a senator and Mommy makes lemonade by the pool. He hasn’t worked a day in his life. Everything’s just been handed to him on a silver platinum platter.

I don’t want to bloody my fists, so I drive the ball hard into his stomach instead. He goes down like a sack of shit, all wheezy and pathetic. A second later his limp-cock friends are laying into me.

The coach pushes between us, one hand holding me back. He looks at me and I swear there is actual steam erupting from his ears. “Jesus H Christ, Compton. This is college ball, not the NBA. We’re on the same side here.”

I put my hands up, keeping an eye on Charleston and his cronies. “Sorry, Coach.”

The words are coming out of my mouth, but all I’m seeing is red. It takes every ounce of control I have not to launch over the coach and rearrange Charleston’s smug fucking face.

“And you,” the coach says, wagging his finger at Charleston, “are the captain. Act like one. There is no ‘I’ in ‘team’. We play as one or we fall as one. There’s no middle ground, and boy have we fallen. It’s time to get the Panthers train back on track. Am I right?”

A lackluster “Yes, Coach” follows.

He shakes his head, wiping his forehead with his shirt. “Hit the showers. You can grab-ass in there.”

One of our guards, an African American pocket rocket type by the name of Tyson, finds me in the corner of the showers. I look down at myself and realize I’ve been lathering up for almost five minutes straight. My head’s too jammed up with thought. I’ve got to chill.

Charleston eyes me from the other side of the showers. He won’t make a move. No, he’s too keen on brown-nosing Coach Smith for that.

Tyson gives me a playful slap on the ass. I should knock his head off, but the way he’s grinning at me is so damn disarming.

“What?” he says. “Juvie got you jumpy?”

“How’d you know ab-”

He taps his ear. “I hear a lot.”

I start washing the soap off, the water scorching just the way I like it. “That was a long time ago.”

Tyson starts washing his junk. “Well, as much as I like seeing Charleston cop a beating—because, let’s face it, he is an asshat—Coach is right. We’ve got to start winning some games.” He pokes me in the chest, surprised by the way his finger seems unable to penetrate my abs. It ricochets off. “You eat concrete for breakfast, Compton? Damn.”

“You were saying?”

“I was saying you can help us do it. You can play. Hell, you could be big time, but you’ve got to be a team player, you hear me?”

I nod. “I do.”

I look back over at Charleston, pleased to see his dick’s the size of a pencil. I turn back to Tyson. “Say, what does everyone do around here for fun?”

“Booze, banging, and basketball. Sometimes in that order. There’s a party over at Sigma Nu tomorrow.”

“The jock place?”

Tyson gives me a look of disapproval. “Easy, I’m a pledge there.”

“You don’t seem like the type.”

“Because I’m black?”

“Because you have a brain.”

“I won’t deny it, but really, you should swing by. I’ll vouch for you.”

“Thanks,” and I mean it. I know most of the team was uneasy about my sudden appearance here, the mystery sports scholarship, the fact I didn’t come from one of their hoity-toity high schools. They’re been treating me like the black sheep ever since, but if they want to win they better wise up. I grew up on the streets where ball was more than a way of life. It was a religion, and boy did I pray. They’re soft. They’re weak. I’m not. No, I’m something they’ve never seen before.

I’m chaos incarnate.

*

‘Just call me Dana’ peers over the top of her designer glasses, legs crossed, and her genuine Eames recliner squeaking every time she shifts position. “So, how are you settling into campus life, Nate?”

The Dean requires me to sit in once a week with the campus psychologist as part of my scholarship conditions, but her condescending tone has me on edge.

I shrug. “Fine, I suppose.”

“Have you made any friends?”

“I’m living in a granny flat at the back of Coach Smith’s house with a bed only my shoulders seem to fit into. It’s not exactly Party Central.”

“That’s not what I asked, Nate. I asked if you’ve made any friends.”

“No.”

She looks down at her clipboard. “I have your records here, you know.”

I don’t know whether she wants me to reply or not, suddenly start confessing my sad life story. “And?”

“You’ve had some issues with… anger, in the past.”

I cross my arms in front of myself, arms burning from training earlier. “What about it?”

“There’s no need to be defensive, Nate. This is a safe place.”

I scoff.

“You were in the foster system growing up?”

“I was.”

“And what was that like?”

“It fucking sucked. Is that what you want to know?”

“Calm down. I’m not trying to attack you. We’re just talking.”

That’s what
he
used to call it when he used me as his punching bag—having a talk.

I uncross my arms and lean forward, my temples suddenly pulsing looking at this woman and her judging eyes, her ‘all knowing’ demeanor. She doesn’t know me. “You want to get inside my head. Is that it? You want to know why I’m so angry and broken?”

She places her hand out. “Like I said, I just want to talk about whatever you want. Open up to me.”

“Open up to
you
? What do
you
know about where I’ve come from? What do
you
know about the street? About starving every night?”

She remains silent.

“Just what I fucking thought.”

I stand up, knocking a bowl of mints off the table in my haste. I storm out of there, my blood pumping, my head pounding.

I eye people as I walk, ask them what they’re staring at. It’s like they’ve never seen someone with a tattoo before.

It’s only when I’m safely back at the flat, Coach’s trophy cabinet watching on, that I allow myself to breathe.

*

Tyson slaps me on the ass again, and again he almost loses his head. “You’ve really got to stop doing that.”

“You’ve got a nice ass. What can I say?”

“Are you...?”

“Gay?” He laughs. “Hell, no. Short, black, and gay? I’m not trying to win the minority lottery here. No, I’d be happy with some of that sweet cheerleader action, one with that double Dutch butt. You know what I’m saying?”

I look past the guy in front of me to the court, the cheerleaders jumping around like enthusiastic Playboy bunnies. I know their type, too. I’ve had my fair share of bimbos. They’re fun for about an hour. After that you’d find better conversation with a cinder block.

It’s dark here waiting in the tunnel, but I can hear the crowd, hear the energy. For a moment I’m sure they are chanting my name, but it’s lost as we start to jog out into the light.

That’s the first thing I notice. It’s blinding out here. Back home the sun could get up, turn the soles of your shoes to glue against the court, but this is different, an artificial kind of light. It seems the perfect word to describe this entire place—artificial, not real.

I start to stretch on court, looking around at the crowd. They call this place the Coop House, Can House… I can’t really remember, but it’s packed. There’s not a seat to spare.

The jersey feels weird, my shoes too new and white.
Remind yourself why you’re here.
You’ve got this. You’ve got these punks.

I need a ball in my hands. I signal to the sidelines and Coach throws one over. I toss a few easy jump shots up from inside the key, the
whit!
sound of the ball passing through the net music to my ears. I go wide for some threes, sinking four in succession with ease. My confidence builds.

I look to the crowd again. It’s clear I’m the center of attention. With my ink and built frame, I stand out like a toddler in a titty bar.
Fuck them. Fuck what they think. I’ll let my game do the talking.

I’m collecting a rebound when I catch a glimpse of a girl courtside. She’s the epitome of a clean-cut college type with barely a hair out of order, but there’s something about her that stops me in my tracks. Maybe it’s the fact she’s so different from the Avril Lavigne lookalike beside her. Maybe it’s her bottle-green eyes, but there’s something there I know, something familiar.

Coach is screaming at me from the sidelines. “Compton! Get your head out of your ass and do some drills!”

I join the others just as the whistle blows.

It’s on.

I find my position and size up the opposition. They’re all inbreeds from what I can tell—easy prey.

The siren goes and we take possession. Charleston’s the first to score—surprise, surprise—but I’ll be damned if he’s going to take this moment from me.

I make an easy steal from one of the opposition point guards. Poor bastard shit his pants when he saw me standing over him. I burn down the court from the turnover, one of my teammates yapping on for the pass to the side, but no, this is
my
highlight reel.

I charge up the center hard and run the ball off the backboard for an easy deuce. The crowd goes nuts, and you know what? It feels good—
really
fucking good.

I make two blocks, dump a three… easy points, really, Charleston whining at me to “Share the love, hey?” I give him the bird. “Share this.”

I take possession again. The others are open. There’s a lot of traffic in the key, but that’s not about to stop me. I pull out a bit of flair, filter through for the release, but the opposition center is all up in my face. He brings a knee into my chest mid-air, the ball sailing away. I fall hard, instantly snapping up. “What. The. Fuck?!”

The ref whistle’s goes. It takes me a second to register the foul is on me. A fucking
charging
foul?

I throw my hands up. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I catch sight of Familiar Girl again. She’s watching me with such intensity I can practically feel her eyes burning their way through my body. But she’s looking at me with what—fear, admiration… lust?

The center downs the foul and we’re toe to toe again, but I’m not going to let him get off so easy. The next time he charges I make sure I’m there. With a simple shift left I’m right in his path. He goes slamming into me, just completely flattened. “You like that?” I tell him, casting his prone body into shadow. I could crush him right now, but Tyson pulls me away. “Easy, big guy.”

Coach calls time out, tells me to share the ball, use the team, but I switch off. I’ll win the game myself if I have to.

The third quarter goes exactly the same as the first and second. I get aggressive, get right up into their faces and make them work for every point. I even manage to swing a dunk, the crowd exploding and Coach doing the same, though not with joy.

We’re five points up, but I know as well as anyone how fast fortunes can change in this game.

It all feels good—the boards under my feet, the ball in my hand, the sweat and smell of popcorn in the air.
This
is where I belong.
This
is where I’m free.

Charleston actually passes my way when he hits a wall of opposition defense. It’s the wrong move. I’ve got heat of my own—too much. I look for the easy out, seeing our point guard open down the far lane. He doesn’t look he’s paying attention, but it’s too late for that. With two hands I send the ball out hard and fast, but he’s too busy eyeballing cheerleaders instead of the game.

As soon as the ball leaves my hand, as soon as I see where it’s headed, I know exactly what’s going happen. What I don’t expect is the way her head snaps back, the force at which I’ve propelled the ball at her.

The medics take her away and I hit the bench. We win, but I barely notice. I shouldn’t care, she wasn’t paying attention, but I can’t get her out of my head. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. All I know is I’ve got to find out more about her.