“This guy named Alfred Leary.” Jonah Carpenter, one of his freshman teammates who seemed like he was in a perpetual growth spurt, wrapped an arm around Cliff and Dell. His cologne game was strong; his deodorant game was not. It was a combination that forced Cliff to breathe through his mouth. “He’s a booster for Browerton Athletics. He attends every game. Fucking loaded.”
“Ya think?” Dell said.
“Dude, this is just one of his houses. I heard he only stays here to watch Whitetail football and basketball. The rest of the time he lives in a penthouse in New York. He’s also got places in Paris and Hawaii.”
“Man, I want to be so rich that I have a mansion just to watch basketball games.” Dell ran his hand on the back of his head, which had a nice fade.
Cliff had experience with boosters in high school, adults who cared deeply about non-professional sports and lavished teams and players with gifts. Those gifts came with strings attached and were based on performance.
The freshmen meandered through the mash of people in the living room, past kids relaxing on couches and bay window seats. It was a strange feeling to be at the bottom of the hierarchy again, but Cliff appreciated the anonymity of being a lowly freshman.
“I can’t wait to start practicing and get out there,” Carpenter said.
“We still got time.” Dell ran his hand over the expensive fabric of an armchair. “NCAA rules dictate we can’t start practicing until October fourteenth, and the first game isn’t until November tenth.”
“Did you memorize those dates?” Carpenter asked.
“Hell yeah. Also, feel this chair. This is some nice shit.”
Curiosity got the better of Cliff and he, too, grazed his fingers along the chair.
“Gentlemen, are you ready to get fucking shitfaced?” Dan Altshuler, team captain, came up to them; the three freshmen pulled their hands from the chair. “Follow me.”
They took the step from the living room to a mahogany wood bar where a Browerton coed poured himself a screwdriver with Grey Goose vodka. Altshuler had the cocky air of a captain. It wasn’t only on the court where he liked to show off.
“Damn, you got the good stuff,” Dell said.
“We’ll start you gentlemen off with a shot of whiskey,” Altshuler said. “And take it from there. What’s your drink of choice?”
“Anything and everything,” Dell said.
“Will you settle for a Long Island Iced Tea?”
Carpenter raised his index finger as if he were actually ordering. “I’ll do scotch on the rocks.”
“Yes, sir.” Altshuler turned to Cliff.
“Beer,” he said without missing a beat.
“Beer? We’re fully stocked with the good stuff.” Altshuler gestured to the bar. “Beer’s a little weaksauce.”
Exactly why he was choosing it. He always wanted to be in control of himself.
“I’m a Wisconsin boy born and raised. Beer is in my blood.” It was a perfectly calibrated statement in Cliff’s eyes. Unobjectionable.
“I think we only have Coors Light.”
“Works for me.”
Altshuler rolled his eyes as he smacked Mr. Grey Goose on the back and gave him the orders. Cliff thought Altshuler was making the drinks for them as a welcoming gesture. That’s what he would’ve done if he were captain.
“So you’re the freshman point guard?” Altshuler asked with a hint of doubt, his narrow eyes in a perpetual sneer. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to get next-to-zero play time this year. I had to wait three long years to get out of the shadow of our last great point guard. This year is my turn, and I’m making up for lost time. I’m giving up as little court time as possible. Just wanted to warn you.” Altshuler waved and air hi-fived a group of students across the room, soaking in every bit of attention like a plant starved for sunlight. “But this will be a good learning year for you to see how basketball is played.”
“I know how it’s played.”
