“You in here, Steele?” a grumbly, ragged voice called.
“What the fuck, Mo?”
I stared at my teammate and friend in disbelief. His face was a mangled mess. His eye was almost swollen shut, and if his skin wasn’t so damn dark, he would have one hell of a shiner.
He slumped down on the couch across from me. “Demetri found out.”
“Yeah, I can see that. What the hell? When?” I leaned forward on my knees and waited for him to answer.
“Well, you were all pussified over the radio chick, so it must have been when you slipped out to call her. I went outside to toss some trash, and fucking D sneaked the hell up on me and gave it to me good. Then he said it was over and I better do right by his sister.”
“She told him?” I relaxed back into the couch and made myself comfortable, not sure if we were going to play.
Mo nodded. “That’s why my voice is all screwed, ’cause she and I got into such a screaming match. Fuck, I’m an idiot. Who the hell gets into a screaming match with a pregnant chick?”
“Woman. I think woman may be more appropriate.”
“Shut the fuck up with all your feminist bullshit. Sonny was right . . . you’re going soft.”
“Listen to who’s talking,” I shot back.
He laughed. “Don’t! It hurts when I squeeze my eye like that.”
“Wimp.”
“Want me to give you one? Might make you look tough to your fans.”
“Please, I took care of Sonny. Told him he’d get an exclusive after we won the ’ship if he laid off the intern and me, let me see if there was something there. Of course, I also suggested he lighten up on her at work, and then like a fool, I accidentally mentioned it to her. So there’s no chance now.”
Mo smirked at me and then grimaced, reaching up to gently prod at his eye. “You’re even worse than me when it comes to the ladies. Didn’t they teach you any moves down south?”
I stood. “Shut it. I have plenty of moves; I’m just getting in touch with my Southern gentleman side.”
He stood and twisted his torso a few times. “We gonna play?”
“You up for it?”
“Hell yeah.”
We wound our way through the locker area and out to the tunnel.
“Hey, did you make up with D’s sister? Angela, right?” I asked as we walked toward the hardwood.
“We made up, and I’m doing the right thing.”
I slapped him on the back. “Good boy. Now, get ready to lose.”
We played thirty-three and then banged out three hundred shots on the gun before breaking for breakfast.
Walking down the hill toward town, Mo said, “So that’s pretty big expectations, we got to win the ’ship for Sonny to stay on your good side.”
“Yeah, I know. Big mistake.”
“Hey, Hafton, I got your Fighting Green starting lineup ready to go. Let me hear you scream!”
The announcer’s voice echoed through the field house as I jogged in place in the tunnel. It was the season’s opening night, and we were playing a cupcake of a team—for us—Central Michigan State. It was a non-conference game, and we were favored to win by a lot.
Adrenaline and nerves rushed through my veins. I tugged at the waistband of my dark green uniform and adjusted the sweatband holding my hair back with my mind on one thing. Winning.
“Here they come, put your hands together! At center, six-foot-ten marketing major Demetri Portacalas.”
D-man ran out, breaking the banner, and rushed the bench with two cheerleaders shaking their ass all the way with him.
“Coming next, another senior, Alex White, standing tall at six foot five and playing small forward. White’s a local guy and an agriculture major.”
Alex took his place next to Demetri, both of them jumping up and bumping shoulders in midair.
“Our main man, Mo, Maurice Dawson, a junior taking after his alumni brother, a six-foot-seven power forward.”
Mo pumped his fist in the air and kissed both cheerleaders on the cheek before taking his place and bumping shoulders with the others.
“In the back court, point guard Ashton Denube, another junior, six foot four and lethal with his ball handling.”
Ash blew kisses to the crowd and flexed his arms like the showman he was, and hugged Coach. Conley hated his antics, but wouldn’t show it on the court.
“Annnd, filling out the back court, junior logistics major and advancing the ball every game, six-foot-four Blane Steele.”
When I ran out, a pair of ginger cheerleaders latched onto my arms and stopped me at center court. They waved their pom-poms in the air and turned me around for everyone to see before they let me on my way to bump chests with the other four guys on my team.