Prologue
Grant
The late summer heat beats on the back of our necks as we run up and down the court, and I think about how until a few weeks ago, I’d decided this would be my last season. How I was going to walk away from?—
Will fucking Chapmanbarrelsinto my side as he runs past me and the shrill blare of Alex’s ref whistle pierces our eardrums.
“Why the fuck are we stopping?” he says, dropping his head back impatiently.
“Uh,” Alex looks at him, brows scrunched. “Because we’re calling fouls, right?”
Will’s annoyance rolls off him in waves as he turns toward the stands before fixing his gaze back on our ref. “Didn’t mean to run into him. He was in my way.” Will barely looks back—just shrugs.
A scoff escapes me just as I’m about to ask him where the fuck he gets off, but Alex blows that piercing whistle to resume the game. I brush it off, like I do most things with him, and get back into it. But he’s reckless with the rest ofthe team, too, like his sole purpose is to hog the ball instead of functioningwithhis teammates.
We’re up court, attempting to intercept Andy, but he outmaneuvers us; Will’s ball swishes in the net, breaking our tie and pulling them slightly ahead. And I usually couldn’t care less, except that suddenly, I hear someone clapping. When I turn around, I have to temper the disbelief that’s probably written on my face as I spot Dan Chapman applauding Will’s basket, a man in a dark polo sitting next to him. A woman’s to his left, head down as she furiously types into her phone. A scout; maybe his assistant. Un-fucking-believable.
If he was even a slightly decent person, he would’ve toldhisteam—the one he’s captain of—that there might be a scout at today’s typically casual pick up game. That we should all be aware so we can perform the way we would if we knew someone was watching. Instead, he just bulldozed the guys he’s supposed to be leading, because his daddy brought an important friend to watch him play.
He lingers on the court once we all file off to shower, and I find myself watching as Dan pulls Will in and turns him toward the scout. I catch a glimpse of the polo and sure enough, he’s scouting for the Nets.
“Deep breaths, bro,” Mateo says, slapping my back once we’re back at the lockers, Will quickly jogging in behind us like he wasn’t just talking to a scout. “If you don’t, your jaw’s gonna lock like that.” The resignation painted on his face pisses me off even more. The fact that these guys aren’t worth even a heads up should be enough for our coach to reconsider our team's leadership. But he’s not here. Because it’s apick up game.
Will knows that. Manipulative fuck.
Deep breaths. It’s probably a good idea.
Just one more year of dealing with his shit, and then…it’s the big leagues. Hopefully.
Most of these guys have had their sights set on the draft since freshman year, but until now I was set to follow in my dad’s footsteps and join Fielder Foods, the largest luxury grocery chain in the country. The wrongness of that has been lodged in my throat for weeks now and I’ve been avoiding my dad’s calls because of it. I haven’t figured out how to tell the man who adopted me, the family who gave me every opportunity, who gave my sister and I this incredible life, that I won’t do the one thing he’s dreamed of me doing. That instead, I’m going to do the one thing he’s always warned against. The idea of being a retired athlete, of having performed at the D1 level and then saying I left without a fight to go be a corporate overlord? It depresses the fuck out of me.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts by a rap at the door just before it barely opens.
“Are we decent?” a voice that always seems to pull my attention calls out.
Will shouts for her to walk right in, even though half the team is showering, and Genevieve Dupont strides over to his side without so much as a glance at the rest of us. And it’s typical, but it never ceases to amaze. The way she’s laser focused on ballet? Copy and paste that drive, but make it about Will.
She pulls a phone out of her bag, her brows rising as she waves it in front of him.
“You’re lucky I checked my back seat,” she says, the ghost of a smile on her lips. Her dark curls are pulled back into a bun and a pink, criss-crossy sort of one piece disappears beneath her black spandex leggings as she standsthere, legs slightly crossed, and it’s hard for any of us to look away.
“Shit, I didn’t realize,” he says, taking it from her. “What would I do without you?”
From where I stand, I can see the blush that creeps up her soft brown skin, can see the way she playfully rolls her eyes at him. So I finally look away, busying myself with organizing the invisible mess in my locker. My phone lights up, the vibration sending it across the bottom of the locker.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
I click the ringer and ignore the call.
“Great question,” I hear Gen tease back.
“Where you off to, Gen?” Scott cuts in, shutting his locker. I move to sit on the bench and wait for a shower to open up, my attention landing right back on our little intruder.
Her eyes crinkle slightly, a pained expression flitting across her face, and I fail to stifle the small laugh that escapes me. She gives me a slow once over, the line she tracks burning into me, the way it always does. I wonder if I’m the only one who feels so seared by the attention she rarely gives anyone but Will.
Rolling her lips together, like she’s contemplating not even answering, she clears her throat. “The studio.” There’s that bored expression she always wears, intensified only by the disdainful glare in her eyes. It’s one that could cut a man, but Scott is incapable of taking a hint.
“You know, there’s this really great?—”
