I snort. “Hisgal? Phat ain’t never had no boyfriend.”
That statement wakes Bryson up and has everybody staring at us.
No man ever had his face between her legs, his fingers inside her or her commitment—only me. Maybe she kissed a boy or two before, but that was it and I’d already forced myself to accept that I didn’t get to her lips first. Mom couldn’t negotiate with God abouteverything.
“How the fuck you know anything about what she had?” Bryson asks.
Marquise flings his arms up. “Maybe she told him. Maybe you getting played.”
“Played?” Bryson snaps his neck back.
“Or y’all could just shut the fuck up about some business that ain’t yours,” I blurt.
Bryson huffs. “Fuck you mean? Sheismy business.”
“Oh, for real? You always spread your business around so easily for other men to stick their nose in it?”
He pushes up from the bench with his untied laces dangling from his shoes. “Didn’t I tell you that you don’t know shit about me and her? Y’all know he likes to listen to our conversations when he has them headphones on?”
“As I should. Niggas get to college and become master storytellers. It gives me my laugh for the day.” I chuckle, collapsing onto the bench he pushed up from. “Since we sharing information about each other so freely—y’all know Bryson a capper? Or maybe he’s just slow. Brodie been in a one-sided relationship all semester.”
I twist around to study their faces and swipe my tongue across my lips to chase the one taste I need besides Phat after another Blake Harvey ambush. That glass I left on the island at home was waiting for them to cover its rim, but I was too busy arguing with a boy, all because my little lady wanted to be grown for a night.
The team folds their lips under their teeth, hold in laughs, and shift under my gaze while I look at every single one of them.
“Major capper,” Devon, one of the shooting guards, snickers.
“A capper?” Bryson sputters. “The last thing you should be worried about is me lying because if you touched Phat, I’ll—”
There’s something about my control freak ways that makes me light on my toes.
I push up from the bench and walk up on him because images of Phat half-naked, wandering around a party full of strangers keeps replaying in my head. “You’ll do what?”
LaQuan’s beady eyes grow when I push Bryson back against his locker.
It’s quiet now. There’s no more sniggling—just heavy breathing coming from Bryson’s flared nostrils.
“Y’all give me and Bryson a minute to chop it up.” I push him closer into the locker.
Marquise sucks his teeth. “Damn, Cali, I ain’t even got in the shower—”
“Nigga, walk your ass to your dorm and shower. We can’t even set a screen but y’all worried about pussy that ain’t yours and willneverbe yours.”
“Alright, alright, alright, damn.” His words come out fast. “Season just started and freshmans already got my man out his body. Fuck, bro.”
Fuck being out my body. I’m not there yet. Instead, I’m trapped inside of it and I see red. It creeps along Bryson’s cheeks in a slow crawl while the rest of the team packs their bags in silence.
“Hey...” LaQuan grips my shoulder. “Take it easy, bro.”
It’s been so long since I existed in a locker room I forgot how often the pecking order needs reinforcement for lame freshmans like Bryson. They need constant training and his bold ass behavior reminds me how lax I’d been because the pecking order operates a lot like jersey chasers. Neither cared how much smut was on my reputation. According to both, I still exist at the top.
When LaQuan’s slides scrape across the floor and the door slams, I grip Bryson’s collar.
“What you gon' do? Beat my ass?” he sputters out. “You think that’ll make me take my foot off your neck? I ain’t starstruck like these other niggas.”
His chest heaves in and out. “I know what kind of person you are and I don’t care how many times your daddy denies it. I know he’s trying to set you up to give you that lil’ redemption story you been wanting.”
I listen for the moment that he realizes this shit isn’t even about basketball, but I know it won’t come.
