My car rounds the next concrete barrier, my lights illuminating the parking garage rows as I weave to the second level from the top.

I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t do this … again. The more I did, the more I risked. But I had no choice, I knew that.

The duffel bag in the back of my car is full of memorabilia. Shirts, jerseys, cards, even a helmet. It should all be in the locker room, or on the shelves in my closet. But instead, it’s here, in a black undetectable duffel bag, in a car driving through a parking garage four towns over from Thistle, in a place where no one ever comes or suspects that Colton Reiter would come.

I maneuver into the parking space, next to a broken-down truck that has probably been here for a year or more. This parking garage is next to a department store that went out of business with the rest of this ghost town. The people have all gone, except for the homeless or those that can only afford to live here while trekking to jobs in the surrounding resort or college towns. It’s the perfect place not to be seen.

“You’re late.” A gruff voice sounds from down the row as I open my car door.

A Chevy Malibu, a nice car but not a flashy one. My agent, the one I’d signed with even before I’d finished high school, had bought it for me. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to do that, but his best client had no money and needed to keep up a certain appearance. So we’d agreed on a nice car, a safe car … one that wouldn’t raise eyebrows but would afford me luxuries like driving myself across the East Coast to college, or taking girls out.

I grab the duffel and look around for danger, feeling a little more secure with the Swiss army knife in my back pocket. “I wasn’t expecting a snowstorm.”

It hadn’t been easy to get here with the drifts nearly blowing my car off the road.

“You live in Vermont, kid … you should expect this. Let me see it.” Mac, the bookie I deal with, holds out a hand.

We’ve been acquainted for two years now, a “chance” meeting arranged by him after one of my freshman year games where I became the youngest college player to ever score a triple double. He’d already looked up my background, dug into me like no one else had bothered, and he knew my secrets. The things that could destroy me, send me running back home and giving up the bright future I had in store.

I hand him the bag. “A helmet, some jersey I swapped with other players after games, one of my authentic jerseys from this season which isn’t in the team store yet, some sweatpants and other small items like player cards.”

He rifles through it, nodding. “This is good, I can give you about five grand for the whole lot. I’ll make ten alone off the football helmet I think.”

Relief courses through my system, because five grand will take the cross off my back for another two or three months. “Keep a grand of it and bet the scoreline for me in the St. Mary’s game. I’ll keep the score under a hundred, but still net us a win.”

Mac types away on his phone, recording my bet and locking it in to whatever program he uses.

“And you’ll filter that merch, clean it, right?” I tap my foot, chewing the inside of my lip.

“Don’t I always put it through the proper channels? I know how to do my fucking job, kid.” He eyes me, annoyed.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks.” I wait for him to hand over the envelope.

It hits my hand, thick with cash, and every cell in my body sings with gratitude. Why, I’m not sure … I should hate this man. But … he makes it possible for me to keep my family alive, supported. And so I have to appease him.

“I’ll try to get you something else next month, and send me my money after that game.” I point at him, and we both walk away, an unspoken truce in this dead parking garage.

I know what the penalty is for selling memorabilia. Or your autograph. Or betting on yourself or your team. Even in the pros, it’s illegal.

I know that I could be suspended, or expelled, or banned from college basketball and the NBA for a lifetime. I’m aware that this all could come crashing down on my head; that an investigation into my dealings and hundreds of thousands of dollars made could send me to prison. The school that I love, that I bleed for, could come under suspicion, that it could affect all of my teammates.

Of course, I knew these things. But they didn’t matter.

Because no one knew, would understand, what it was like to try to keep everything standing tall like some prestigious tree. I juggled seven things at once, all the time, and if I couldn’t pay for a certain branch, they’d all start falling like leaves to the ground.

So I cheated, I shaved points, I stole my roommates sports gear out of their rooms, playing innocent when they couldn’t find something. I sold them to Mac, bet money on myself or against myself. And then I bundled up the cash he gave me and sent it home.

I’d dug myself so deep into this hole that there was no way out, not until I signed an NBA contract and began seeing real bucks. It was an outdated rule that college players couldn’t use their likeness to gain capital, or that I couldn’t sign autographs for money or book appearances. I wasn’t like my teammates, who had both a mom and a dad who were healthy enough to work.

So I’d keep risking it all. Because when faced with this choice and the one I’d never want to make, I’d pick this every time.