Shoot.
Shoot.
Every now and then, I check my phone for a message from Olive. When there’s nothing, I keep going like it’s no big deal. I skip the song, set the phone back down, chug some water, and drop the bottle beside it.
The sun is scorching, searing against my sweaty, sunscreen-lathered skin. My singlet’s scrunched up in a ball on the ground. Thankfully, the sun’s starting to set, and shade is creeping across the court.
I like being out of my head. I love playing the game without an audience. Love just taking shots for me. When no one’s around to judge me or make me feel like my life’s going somewhere I know it’s not.
Spending so much time alone, I’ve gotten good at knowing when I’m really by myself—and when someone’s watching.
Like right now.
A wave of dread hits me just as I take the last shot. The ball hits the rim, slides through the hoop, and bounces…bounces…bounces…until it stops.
I don’t rush over to collect it, I barely even move. My feet are pinned to the floor.
I take one headphone off, and hear voices coming from behind me. But when I turn to face them, my panic evaporates.
It’s just a group of young kids, filming me and cheering me on.
Something I haven’t experienced in a long,longtime.
"You guys want to play? Two v two?" I ask, scooping up my ball and holding it out in one hand.
The three of them rush toward me, arguing over who gets me on their team until they settle it with a coin toss.
The tall, skinny redhead ends up on my team, grinning big enough to distract me from everything off the court.
I go easy, coaching all three while playing against two. Even with a few quick tips, their game’s already improved.
"Time," one of them pants. "I need water."
He runs to the base of the hoop, grabs his bottle, and chugs it.
Then he calls out, "Jones, someone named Orlando is calling your phone."
"It can wait," I say, tipping my head for him to hurry. "Next team to score wins." My teammate playfully swats my chest.
"Uh… I don’t think it can. He’s calling again." He walks over, holding my phone out.
"What’s up, Orlando? I’m about to destroy these kids in a game at the—"
"An article’s dropping on you, Avery." That’s all he says. Normally, this would be a text, but he sounds worried.
"What is it this time?" I press, walking off to put some space between me and the kids.
"My source wouldn’t say—but she said it’s bad. Really bad, Avery."
I swallow hard, suddenly parched, my lungs fighting just to function.
"Is it about last year? About Noelle?"
I need him to say no. Need him to tell me it’s something completely different.
"I don’t know, Avery."
"What do you know, then, Orlando? You can’t just call and drop that on me without anything else. What am I supposed to do, just sit here and wait for it to fucking happen?" My voice is raised now. The chatter and excitement behind me have vanished.
