Kiptyn

We are tied at 63. This is the toughest game we’ve played all season, and not because the opposing team is good.

No, ours is just off. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something's different tonight. I don’t like it. These guys need to pull their heads out of their asses and play some fucking ball before we end up getting crushed. I won’t be enough to win this. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but the truth nonetheless.

Cole tosses the ball back in. Jordan snatches it up and passes it to Tiny, who stops, dribbling in place while he looks for an opening. I dash to the right, passing my defensive block, and set myself up for the basket. Tiny passes. The ball flies toward me. My fingers wrap around it moments before I'm hit.

He hits me hard on purpose, and I'm knocked to the floor. The ball rolls off to be picked up by someone else. A whistle blows, but I'm oblivious. Pain radiates from my shoulder. Sharp twists of lightning-fast spasms travel down my arm to my fingertips and back up. I try to wiggle my fingers, and the pain intensifies. Jordan rushes to my side, kneeling down.

“Can you get up, man? Need a hand?”

I lift my left hand and he grips it, pulling me, and I cry out. The pain in my right shoulder is traveling around my back. I feel sick to my stomach. Jordan tries again, and this time he gets me to my feet, but the sports doctors are there now, urging me to the locker room. I don’t want to go. I need to stay on the court. I need to carry the team. Without me, they will lose.

Skila is pushing through the crowd to get to me. I can hear her. “You let me through right this second, or so help me God, I'll castrate you with a rusty spoon.” I laugh when the room parts, making way for her. She rushes to my side, careful not to jostle me. “Are you okay?” she asks, frantic.

I can't let her see how much it hurts. I don’t want her to worry. I'm doing enough of that for the both of us right now.

“I'm fine. The doctor needs to check me out, but it’s routine. No worries, babe.”

She doesn’t believe me—I can tell—but she accepts what I'm telling her without complaint, and I love her in that moment. It shocks me to think that on the tail end of a horrifying injury. My career could be over. I don’t want to think about it, but it's true, and yet my only thought is about how much I love her, my Sky.

One x-ray and an MRI later, the doctors tell me what I've feared since I hit the floor. I'm out for the rest of the season. No NBA finals for me. I've torn the ligaments in my shoulder and pulled a dozen other muscles. The road to recovery will be a long and painful one. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything. I text Chris and ask him to pick me up.

Tonight, I'm getting drunk.

* * *

“Loosen up, bro. I swear, you're wound tighter than that stripper’s G-string.” Chris laughs at his own joke. I try, but I'm pretty sure it comes out as a grimace. The alcohol and painkillers have me buzzing, and I haven’t even had that much to drink. A group of leggy, half-naked girls who barely look old enough to drive wander over to our table in the corner.

Chris invites them to join us, offering his legs as chairs to two of them. I gaze beyond them out into the room. I don’t know what the hell I'm doing here. This is the last place on earth I want to be, and yet here I sit. The waitress comes around and refills my drink. She shakes her head at the group as a whole, and I can't help but return the sentiment.

I don’t belong here. I belong at home with my Midnight Sky. Getting to my feet, I grab the keys from the tabletop and mumble my goodbyes to Chris, who is too involved with the girls around the table to pay me any attention.

Outside, I fumble with the keys, trying and failing to unlock the car door. I don’t understand why the stupid thing won’t work. I'm pushing the key alarm into the keyhole on the driver's side door. It just won't fit. I close one eye and stumble, but I can see better like this. I try again. Someone is walking up behind me. I hear the click of heels on the asphalt.

“Need help there, babe?”

I turn, looking over my shoulder at one of the strippers from inside. “Can't get it unlocked,” I tell her.

She laughs, deep and throaty. “Maybe because you're not using the key,” she says, and I almost feel like she’s making fun of me, but I'm too wasted to care.

“Come on, babe. Let me give you a ride home. You're in no shape to be driving.” I contemplate her words. It makes sense, taking a ride from someone. I'm slightly drunk, and I don’t need to be driving. Chris picked me up from the hospital earlier, and even then, I was buzzing from pain killers, but something about the situation feels wrong.

I frown, trying hard to pull the thought closer to the surface, but it evaporates. I shrug my left shoulder and nod for her to get in the car. She takes the keys and hits the unlock button on the chain. I start around the back of the car, but the bumper snakes out and trips me. Bastard. I climb in the passenger's seat, sinking into the cool, lush leather seats. She starts the engine, and the car roars to life.

“Where to, babe?” she asks, running her hand along my bare arm. My skin crawls with her touch, and for a moment, I worry that I may be sick. I snatch my arm away, and she laughs again.

“Okay. Point made. Just tell me your address, and I'll grab a cab home from there.”

I rattle out the address and then lean my head against the cold glass window as we wind down the busy streets of LA. I can't wait to be home and wrap my arms around Sky while I make sweet love to her.