“I get you were having fun with your buddy, Sonny Boots,” Coach Conley had said, pushing out Sonny’s name on an angry growl. Apparently the shock jock didn’t have as many fans as he thought.
“But if you made a promise on the air, son, you better follow through. I don’t care how silly it is. You’re in your last year, and may I remind you—we do want to win a championship. So, there’s no room for error. I agree, I can’t babysit you punks when you’re hanging out and partying, but I will punish you if things get out of hand and negatively impact this program.”
“I didn’t know Sonny was going to do what he did, sir,” I’d stupidly answered.
“Well, he did, and you did something to lead him there., so now you’re one hundred percent committed, and one hundred percent focused. Think of it that way. Now, get out and go work out or something. I’m counting on you, Blane. You were my go-to man all last season, and now I’ve got to let you move up to the big dogs after this year. Give me something to remember you by. And close the door on your way out.”
That’s all he’d said, but he was right. I owed the school a championship, and I did agree to an on-air interview with Sonny, so this was all on me.
Shit.
In my head, I could see it. National champions. The NBA. Parties, girls, basketball every day/all day—that would be my life for as long as I was healthy. It was floating in front of my face, and I wanted to reach out and grab it like a three-dimensional movie.
Deep in thought, I almost didn’t hear Ashton yelling, “Dude! Where you going?”
He was leaning out the door of the coffee shop on the edge of campus, wearing a Hafton Ball T-shirt and sweats hanging low on his hips, and AF-1’s on his feet. Pretty sure he didn’t drink coffee or tea, so I knew he must have ulterior motives for being there.
I splowed him up—slapping his hand, then morphing into a handshake—and asked, “What the eff? You becoming an intellectual now? Hanging out in coffeehouses?”
“Can you shut the door?” a smooth voice called out from behind the counter, and when I looked up, I knew why Ash was hanging out there. A tall, blue-eyed, blond drink of water was working the espresso machine. She was model-worthy, and just his type.
“Oh yeah.” He smirked back toward the girl.
Bells tinkled overhead as the door closed behind me, and I found myself being dragged toward a table.
“Sit down, take a load off, brother. Tell me your troubles,” Ashton said.
“Who are you? Oprah? Dr. Phil?” I slapped his shoulder. “What’s her name?” I asked him as he lifted a disposable cup of coffee.
“Who?”
“The blonde who has you drinking coffee all of a sudden.” I cocked my head back toward the counter and tugged off my hood.
“Cappuccino, my good friend, made by Ava herself.”
“Crap, could you have a bigger smile across your ugly mug?” I slapped the table this time, stifling a laugh.
“I love when you talk ghetto, white boy, but let me tell you about this grill.” He swiped his hand in front of his pearly whites, nearly as shiny as his shaved head, and laughed loudly. “This is the money maker, my man.”
Turning serious, he tossed his arm over my shoulders and leaned in. “You’re not letting this Sonny thing get to you, are you? We were kidding last night, you know.”
“Nah, I know you were kidding, and it’s fine. Coach said I have to behave now.”
He laughed again, his coffee long forgotten.
I know he’s not a coffee drinker. Or cappuccino.
“You’ll be discreet, that’s all. You got us to cover for you. We’re not going to let your dick shrivel up and die an early death.”
This time I laughed, hanging my head, my whole chest rumbling. My guffaws traveled the length of the shop, disturbing everyone trying to have a quiet moment.
“Anyway what do you think of Ava?” he asked. “For me, not you, you monk. Apparently, she’s a transfer and a hoops fan. Endless possibilities, my friend. Just like our season.”
He rolled his eyes toward the counter, looking to see if the blonde was watching, and took another sip of his cappuccino.
“God, this is shit,” he whispered to me, and winced as he took another swallow.
This time I slammed my fist into the table. “Knew you weren’t going soft.”
The little bells over the door rang again, and I looked over to find Caterina from the radio station walking in.
“Oh shit!” I yanked my hood back up and stared at our pale purple table as if it were the most fascinating piece of shit I’d ever seen.
Ashton’s gaze zeroed in on Caterina as she made her way toward Ava.
“Damn,” he said, “she’s curvy in all the right places. Wish I liked that type. I like ’em lithe and long like a tiger all stretched out, but that little girl is stacked with curves. Moby would love her. He likes ’em a little bigger; likes to grab and roll.”