What reason do you think Avery Jones could possibly have for attacking the man unprovoked?
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***
Ipressthebuttonon the side of my phone, and the screen turns black.
I have no desire to go to the link in their bio. I do not need to find out their thoughts on the situation or their pathetic reasoning.
I don’t care to read through the comments and find out people think I’m an aggressive asshole. I already know it. They tell me every chance they get.
I’m a basketball player, and she’s a musician. Anybody with a brain could figure that out. But what they can’t understand iswhyI came to her defense the wayI did.
I don’t even have the answer to that.
My phone vibrates against my mattress, Orlando’s name on the screen, and I sigh, swiping to answer.
"What’s going on?" I ask, knowing with absolute certainty what he’s called to talk about.
"Did you see it?" he asks, getting right to the point, and I force myself to sit upright in my bed, exhaling a deep breath.
"Which one?" I tease, but my joke falls flat. It’s hard to find humor in something that feels so wrong.
"I’m dealing with it," he assures me, and I shake my head. He’s always ‘dealing with it’.Kicking the comforter off my legs, I drag myself out of bed and head toward my bathroom. "Do you trust me?" he asks as I turn the water on for my morning shower.
"Do I have a choice?"
"That’s the spirit. See you tonight." The line goes dead.
I stare at my blank screen long enough to see my reflection staring back, and I swear, I note the disappointment on my face.
I open up the article again, zooming in on the picture of Olive, her glaring directed right at me.
I remember that moment when she told me she had it handled. And going by the death stare in the picture, she very well might have ripped his jugular out and fed it to the crowd. But I didn’t want to stand on the sidelines long enough to find out.
I lock my phone, placing it down onto the stone vanity in my bathroom, and step into the stream flowing from my shower head.
The season feels like it’s barely started, and I’m already all over the news.
I know I still have time to turn it around before the season ends, but fuck, it just doesn’t seem worth it anymore.
I will be at my best for our next game; if I’m not, I’ll force myself to be.
The press can hound me, they can try to break me, but I won’t let them.
I can’t.
This is my final season, after all. I cannot let them win.
***
Every year, the Youth Basketball Association for Girls and Boys hosts a charity event to raise money.
Formycharity.
I created it not long after I was drafted to the NBA.
