“Tell me how you feel,”I groaned out at her.
Bryson dribbles the ball in a lazy cadence while bumping elbows with LaQuan on his way to me.
Everybody on the team knows what happened back in the locker room without LaQuan even opening his mouth to tell it and there was nothing left to say because it was that tried-and-true pecking order at work again. What’s done is done.
When he dribbles up to me, I don’t see fear in his eyes—just the disappointment from Phat’s non-response to another one of his texts I saw on her phone. Her answer to my request came out between deep labored breaths while I rocked her through an orgasm in their kitchen pantry.
“I’m still angry. The—the whole team thinks I’m a hoe because of him,”she stuttered out, raking her nails across my face.“You said I co—could be angry, remember?”
His eyes crawl over the scratches across my temples like Blake’s did while Pops claps his hands in the distance. “Let’s go, Sanchez!”
I snort, waving my hand, beckoning him to me.
“Yeah.” I mimic Pops’ loud clapping. “Let’s go, Sanchez.”
Good pussy can make a man feel a million different ways at once, but it can also magnify those feelings—especially when a man’s sober for the first time in a long time. I can even see with clear eyes today.
Bryson’s not the same Bryson from the first practice. A lot of shit’s happened since then—freshman growing pains, the last party of the summer, and a last reminder of his place in our locker room. He’s still that lame freshman with a big mouth, but the last party of the summer made him brave enough to bark more, and now he has a chip on his shoulder.
He bounces the ball slowly, staring at those scratches again like he’s trying to decide if they’re from Phat’s pretty coffin shaped nails that I pay for now or some other girl.
“You good, homie?” I ask.
“I ain’t your fucking homie.”
I laugh and clap, because again, good pussy magnifies the wild feelings it creates—especially the sober ones. But the funny thing about good pussy is how crazy it makes men—even men that’s never been in it because somehow we just know when a girl has it. It’s in our nature. It’s how Bryson knows the scratches along my forehead are Phat’s and the only way he knows how good her pussy is when he’s never even had it.
He shoves the ball into my chest. “Go ‘head,pussy.”
“Oh, big brother Marcus teaching you well?” I grip the ball and square up.
“Yeah and after me and him finish balling, Phat teaches me some better shit.” He winks his healing eye, throwing his arms up.
Marcus must’ve finally broken him down and hammered the most important part of defense into his head that Pops couldn’t teach him. It was mental.
The shit he’s saying isn’t true, but one thing about sobriety is that it fucks with my head worse than when I’m home. His words are just words, but they feel real in my sober head.
I jab step and wait for his reaction, but he doesn’t drop off like he’s supposed to.
“Good job, Sanchez!” Pops yells. “Hold steady!”
It’s kind of like that bandaid analogy Phat used.
The best way to get into an opponent’s head is little by little.
We fall back into our stances from before. I jab step again and hold the ball. He follows. We dance around each other while he keeps talking.
“You know I was just over there, right?” He pushes up against my shoulder with his arms spread. “On her porch, in her house, in her face.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad you made it in the house this week, homie. I know how crazy Mom gets about letting strangers in.”
I bring the ball down and cross left, driving off his shoulder and going straight to the hoop.
“Watch that right side, Sanchez!” Pops yells.
