Five
Colton
Dribble, shoot, swish.
Dribble, shoot, swish.
Dribble, shoot, swish.
I hit my twenty-fifth free throw and replaced the orange ball on the rack next to me, picking up my water bottle and surveying the empty arena.
See, I may appear to be a prick with a larger than life attitude, but I worked fucking hard. Sure, I was one of those naturally gifted athletes; this gave me an edge that could never be taught. Like Michael Jordan, Pelé, Usain Bolt … I’d been born to play the game of basketball as if it was my destiny. But I also worked harder, longer, smarter than anyone I’d ever played with.
I was the first one in the gym and the last one out. I didn’t take days off, instead lifting or practicing yoga to improve my muscle tone and agility. The team was on a week break until classes started again, and while most of my teammates have taken that opportunity to get drunk and goof off, I’ve spent three hours a day in this empty auditorium. One hundred made free throws, one hundred suicide sprints, one hundred push-ups, and a few games of HORSE, played against myself, of course.
Getting soft, or allowing myself to fail, just simply wasn’t an option. Not when I had so much on the line. Not when I had to escape the demons running up right on my heels.
I actually preferred the gym like this; quiet, dark, empty. Most players relished under the hot lights, the buzz of a crowd, the circus of TV crews and competitors in your face. But there was something beautiful about just me, the hardwood and the basket. It was pure, back to the basics … precious moments that I rarely got in my life anymore.
From somewhere inside the center, but outside the court, a door shuts. Maybe a coach is here, or another player is leaving the weight room. I don’t venture out to check, instead keeping up my self-prescribed practice.
After I finish here, then I can go reward myself with a night out at The Croc … the last one before courses start up for the spring semester.
My mouth waters craving a rich brown ale, and my mind wanders back to two nights ago, when I’d encountered the new girl at the bar.
She had to be new here, for a couple of reasons. First, Jade Mountain wasn’t really that big of a campus. With just under eight thousand undergrads, and the rest graduate students, you got to know a lot of faces. Especially the gorgeous ones. And when I’d gone back to our table, none of my friends could confirm that they’d ever seen her … and she was not the kind of chick you didn’t notice.
Blond hair, dark blue eyes, body like a Victoria’s Secret model … this girl looked like one of those old school nineties models before being stick thin was the in thing to be. Like Christie Brinkley or Claudia Schiffer … or Pamela Anderson in her Baywatch days. And that fucking accent … so clipped but aristocratic at the same time. It had me hard now just thinking about the way her mouth formed syllables.
She hadn’t wanted to play my games … or she’d entertained the idea and then thought better of it. That was okay though, I enjoyed a little challenge. Had been searching for one anyway, and now that I’d met her, I knew what my mission would be for this semester.
Not that thinking about her had stopped me from burying my cock in another girl that same night. I was a man after all, and one who was used to satisfying his urges at the exact moment they needed to be met.
But … it hadn’t been the same. For a while now. Sure, I got off. Those couple seconds of white hot pleasure bordering on pain were euphoric, and I raced for those releases. It was the couple seconds of my day that I wasn’t thinking, worrying, stressing. But the lead up, having to foreplay, listening to screechy moans, the girls’ fake orgasm faces … it was all boring me.
That sounded fucking insane, and I questioned why I was a mental case these days.
My phone buzzed on the floor, vibrating around on the hardwood.
Unlocking it, I see the text that just came through.
Chuck: Do you have some new stuff for me?
My hand shakes at my side, the other one gripping my cell. I flex my fingers, trying to get rid of the anxious tension that knots at the back of my neck.
Me: I won’t have it until next week. Season starts back up, and I can get you a few things.
I look around, as if someone is going to jump out from behind the bleachers and catch me in the act.
Except, I’m not doing anything … at least not right now.
But next week, I’d meet with Chuck again. And risk my entire future to support my family, just like I’d been doing for the majority of my life.