The LA Sharks will get the win. I have faith in my team and my brother, Byron. He will wipe the floor with his asshole opponent. I pray for it to happen so why the hell am I nervous?
When something bothers me, I resort to writing it on paper. I make a list, then burn it or tear it up. It’s better than emailing in frustration. Only today, it is not business-related. It’s the reason why I started to write these lists.
From my desk, I grab a pen and paper and write his name in capitals, repeating it ten times. Then I take it to the shredder, imagining it’s his face, then stride back to the glass window.
Strobe lighting flashes over the crowd—a full house. The music is dulled behind the thick glass. It’s safer to watch from a corporate box, the distraction of conversation with sponsors over food and wine more appealing than sitting close to the court and closer to him—Mr. Asshole in the flesh.
I’m usually sitting in the VIP courtside seats with my family at this time, clapping along to the beat, excited for the game.
The pads of my fingers rub at my temple, trying to ease the tension. I barely slept last night or all week. We have played the Stingers many times over the years, and with every home game, my bitterness grows. I need to lock up the bitch inside me that turns nerves to hate-revenge before I take a seat near my mother because God forbid I express my animosity for Brandon Johns.
After locking my door, I head down to the court, followed by my security, the camera aimed at me as I appear at the end of the tunnel. I wave and smile as though it’s my birthday. The fans cheer equally loud for me as they do for their team.
Owning an NBA team brought unexpected stardom. In Los Angeles, it’s all part of the job. Sincehe’sbeen gone, I found a place where I belong.
It’s not all candy and rainbows when I speak to the press after a losing game alongside Coach with more positivity than a smiling quokka.
The fuck?
Why did a quokka come to mind?
Why have my thoughts flipped back to six years ago when the King of Assholes himself showed me the sights of Australia, including the adorable creatures found in Western Australia.
Refusing to look at the court as the players assemble, ready for the national anthem, I take the few steps to my seat beside my parents. Giana, my brother Byron’s wife, turns and holds up two crossed fingers at me. I smile and nod, knowing we need more than luck.
Our head coach, Bruce Mathews, has mapped out every play for the LA Sharks to take down the Stingers, and if our players keep their ego under control, it should go to plan.
The music finishes, and the players divide into circles around their coaches and chant “Pride” before striding to akey spot around the center circle. Byron claps his hands to motivate our team. I don’t hear what he says as the cheering in the arena deafens all other sounds.
The ref throws the ball in the air, and our big guy taps it to Byron, only Brandon knocks Byron off his feet and steals the ball. I spring to my feet along with the rest of the crowd and shout, “Foul.”
Brandon Johns dribbles at lightning speed toward the hoop and slams it through. It silences the entire crowd back on our asses.
Fucker.
It’s a similar play from when he played for us, and our guys should have been ready. He runs past Byron and bumps his shoulder without giving him a single look. Byron ignores him and breaks free to receive the pass. I’m not as calm as my brother, with my heart thumping in my chest as hatred rolls off me in waves. Seconds later, Byron hits a three-pointer, and we take the lead. I clap hard for my brother, stare at his opponent, and wish to hell he wasn’t here tonight. We score again, and my heart slows a little, the tension in my stomach easing. By the end of the first quarter, we are up by six points with Byron leading the scorers for the LA Sharks, and Brandon leading for the Stingers.
I stand at the same time as my brothers do in front of me.
“It’s a shame they are not on the same team,” Jobe says to Franklin.
Ugh.
“We don’t need BJ. Byron and River are doing fine,” Franklin tells him.
Too right. Though River, our new guard, is unpredictable. One day, he can shoot the lights out, the next game, he barely scores, although he manages double stats insteals and assists. River is a new crowd favorite. With his longer brown hair and handsome looks, he also plays it up to the crowd every time he scores.
“BJ is still in form after an impressive Olympic series,” Jobe replies.
“Still couldn’t beat the US Dream Team,” I say over Jobe’s shoulder.
He looks at me and smiles. “No. Nor would he beat Byron for a spot, but he did play well every game.” I roll my eyes. “I’m glad he didn’t quit. He brings something special to the game even though he isn’t our favorite player.”
“Quit? Who told you he might quit?”
“He did.”
What?
