"Lighten up, Avery. I thought for sure you would’ve spotted the person behind the song you blast in your ears before every game."
Thatgets my attention.
I follow Orlando’s gaze, Ryder’s mouth hanging wide open when he spots her. "Holy shit. No way Akira Rain is front row," Ryder says, slapping my chest with the back of his hand.
I tilt my head, because it’s not Akira I’ve found myself drawn to. I would’ve been just as pumped as Orlando and Ryder if I hadn’t spotted the girl beside her first.
The girl with the big, hazel eyes, long brown hair, and tanned skin. The girl with a smirk on her lips that tells me she could be both the devil and an angel wrapped into one.
My body moves onto the court on autopilot, finding my spot and the player I’m meant to be guarding, when the ball fliesand collides right into my gut, snatching the wind right out of my lungs. I hunch over in an attempt to catch my breath, hands resting on my knees as I steady my breathing.
The crowd's reaction is a mix of wincing andooo’s,while chanting the name of the Falcons player behind the throw.
But when I look up, I don’t look for him
I don’t look for Orlando, or Ryder, or even my coach.
No. My gaze lands on hers, and our eyes lock for what feels like an eternity. Then she raises a brow at me, tipping her water bottle in my direction, and all the air I was struggling to breathe only moments ago makes its way back to my lungs.
I somehow find a sudden rush of adrenaline, and an even bigger urge to annihilate the Falcons like we weren’t able to do last season, and solidify our spot at the top of the ladder.
So that’s exactly what I do.
Chapter three
Avery
Italmostfeelslikewe’re attending somebody’s funeral with how eerily quiet this locker room is. There isn’t anything that makes it even remotely obvious that we not only just beat the reigning champions, but the game wasn’t even fucking close.
To the surprise of everyone on my team, I didn’t get fouled off and got to play the entire second half while sitting very uncomfortably on four fouls until the final siren sounded.
But my team could be to blame—or thank—for that, considering they seemingly all but forgot about my existence.
It’s like…something in them switched when we walked back out onto the court for the final quarter. Like they suddenly remembered I was the person they’d heard about all over the news last year, and not the guy I’ve been my whole career.
One slip-up, caused mass destruction.
"Are you finished feeling sorry for yourselves?" Coach White asks, his voice louder than necessary. "There's no room in my fucking gym for self pity. You either pat yourselves on the backfor coming out on top, or you can head back out onto the court, and run suicides until the sun comes up." He pauses to watch us. "Are. You. Done?" He spits the last three words, and I swear I feel the spray of his saliva slap against my forearm.
"Yes, Coach," fifteen voices repeat in unison, but none sounding enthusiastic or believable. We’re in the beginning of the season, every game is important if we want to make it as far as we did last year, and while I have no doubt every player in this room wants to go out and celebrate tonight, they don’t want to do it with me.
I’ll be heading back to my apartment, alone.
Madison Square Garden is my place of work. I don’t have a typical nine-to-five job, so I can’t ever switch off. And while I know deep down in my core that this is going to be the last season I ever play in the NBA, right now, I can’t seem to find it in me to care.
My career is over. I came to terms with that a long,longtime ago, but last year’s incident was just the nail in the coffin.
I came to the decision alone, but I know Ryder figured it out when I did. He knows I’m not coming back. Our manager, Orlando, likes to pretend he doesn't know it, too. The only two people who don’t share my blood, but love me for who I am. Love me like brothers would.
Last year was a low point in my life. One I don’t think I’ve ever fully recovered from.
Since then, with every news article that came out about me, true or not, the entire country began to hate me more and more. They deemed me reckless, irresponsible and downright selfish. I understood why, though. They never had concrete evidence against me, but what they had was enough. Everything was speculation to the public, but behind the scenes, it was a giant mess. A mess I didn't have the energy to clean up.
It was easier for the press to paint me as the villain in their story. It gained more traction that way. It made them, as journalists, more reputable.
They all got greedy. Liked the way the public hung on to every word that was said about me, so they ran with it, milked it for all it was worth.
"He was drunk, jealous and spiraling. While sources and their version of events might be conflicting, one thing remains true: Avery Jones is aggressive."
