Joel pulls the Tesla into the garage and Z and I pry ourselves out of the tiny sports car. The rest of the team is already here and the splashing and music from out back filters through the house. It’s a hundred and eight degrees in Arizona today. August was worse, but we’re nearing the first day of fall, and I could literally fry an egg on the hood of the car. Shit isn’t normal.

I miss the Midwest humidity. Never thought I’d utter those words.

Sometimes, I’d like to come home to a quiet house instead of the craziness of our non-stop party house, but I get why our place is the hang out.

The White House, which is what it was dubbed because it’s white, it’s huge, and it was purchased by the university president. Our house is only a few blocks from campus and right across the street from Ray Fieldhouse, making it ideal to walk just about anywhere we need to go—not that we had to thanks to my gimp foot and handicap parking. The only perk of being injured.

The White House is nicer digs than anyone else has. Fuck, this house is nicer than the one I grew up in. The only place I’ve seen that’s nicer than this house is Joel’s parents’ estate. Estate as in it’s too fucking big to just be called a house.

But the pool is really why they’re all here. Well, that and the stocked fridge.

I swipe a cold water and head out to sit under the mister. Z grabs a protein drink and follows, taking a seat next to me off to the side and away from the pool hangers.

“Welcome home, roomies,” Nathan calls from the pool. He has a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a beer in hand. It’s barely noon. On a Monday.

I shake my head at him. I’m not pissed he’s drinking and smoking. I’m pissed he’s doing it in front of the young guys. He can handle himself. I’m not sure about the freshman.

I turn my attention to Z. “Getting in today?”

He grunts something in response. I’ve never seen Z get in the pool. We give him shit about it, but I honestly have no idea if he doesn’t like getting into the water because it’s usually filled with lots of people or because he can’t swim. I can’t imagine there’s anything he can’t do.

Quiet. Grunting. Out of the limelight. That pretty much sums up Z off the court. On the court, he’s a whole different person. People who have never seen him play assume all kinds of dumb shit about him solely based on his mammoth size, or as he would put it, a big, beautiful black man. The fact that he walks around wearing his headphones oblivious to the world and rarely speaks more than a word or two at a time also doesn’t help.

Once people see him play, though, it’s like seeing someone in their natural habitat. He’s smart, quick, and loud. Dude doesn’t shut up on the court.

Shaw tosses one of the ball honeys—Charlene? Charla? Carla?—into the air, and her high-pitch squeal makes me want to cover my ears. There’s a whole posse of girls standing in the shallow end, being careful to keep their hair and makeup water free. I wish I were a bigger asshole because I’d really like to go dunk the whole lot of them and watch the chaos that would ensue. Lucky for them, I only think this. Also, I’m not doing a lot of swimming these days with the boot and all, so I just sit back and admire the view. I’m annoyed, but I’m not blind.

So yeah, I’m a grumpy asshole. I haven’t always been, but getting injured senior year—the year I was supposed to take the team all the way. Yeah, that would make even the nicest guy go a little douchebag.

The rest of the team mills around, swimming, lounging, drinking, eating all our damn food.

I drain the water bottle and drum the plastic container on my leg.

Bored.

Restless.

Joel appears at my side and flings himself down, cracking a beer open in the process.

“Rookie is out of control. I can’t wait until you’re back. Freshman needs to be put in his place.”

My eyes go back to the freshman rookie who is front and center in the pool, tossing girls up and lavishing in the attention.

“Three more weeks. Fingers crossed.”

“Good because we’re screwed if we’re depending on Shaw to get us the ball. I know it’s supposed to be some big damn deal that he’s playing two sports, but shit just makes me nervous. Twice the risk of injury and half the amount of focus.”

I nod in agreement. “I’ll talk to him and to Mario. I’m sure the baseball team has the same concerns.”

“Wanna have a little fun with them?” Joel’s attention is focused on the pool and pure mischief coats his expression.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Remember my freshman year when you guys made us crash parties and run plays?”

A chuckle rumbles in my chest. Being a freshman sucked in so many ways. My rookie year, the upper classmen mostly just made us do things like carry their gym bags and act as water boys. Fuck, I’d been so glad to be a sophomore and for a new crop of guys to take the heat. Joel and his class had been an obnoxious batch of freshmen and we’d increased the torture to knock down their huge egos. Come to think of it, Joel’s class was a lot like this year’s rookies.

“You thinking of taking them out tonight?”

“Yeah, but I think we should elevate – take it to the next level.”

Shake my head. “We have practice in the morning, so don’t elevate it too much. Coach’ll kick our ass if we show up with a bunch of hungover rookies. Exhibition is coming up, and he’s chewing Tums like candy.”

“Live a little, Reynolds. It’s your senior year. We’re doing it up right.”

“We’re? You still got another year.”

“Yeah, but it isn’t gonna be the same without you and Z. This feels like the last year of something great. Something none of us will ever forget.”

Shit. He’s right. The season is shaping up to be the best year of our lives, and I’m itching to get out of this damn boot. It’s making me cranky.

“Yo, Shaw.” My voice booms across to the pool, and he lifts his head slowly, taking his damn time. A chin tilt is the only acknowledgment I get.

“Get me a beer.”

Joel cackles. “My man, you don’t even drink during the season.”

“Rookie doesn’t know that.”

“No. No. No. Come on, guys. That’s sloppy.”

Sitting in a plastic chair on the sidelines with my booted foot propped on another, I bounce the ball back and forth under my knee. Back and forth, back and forth. I can’t tell if it’s making my nerves better or worse. I don’t need to be here. It’s torture, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. This is my team. I may be injured, but they’re still my responsibility.

“Fifty free throws and two miles on the treadmill and call it a day. We have a big week coming up. Talent only goes so far. Focus. Repetition. Heart.

Already having about a gazillion shots in for the day, I head to the weight room. I can’t remember the last time I did leg day, and I’ve never wanted to squat and dead lift so much in my entire life. I pass Mario and a few of the baseball guys leaving as I enter.

Athletes have our own weight room, but we share it between all the different sports. It’s huge—easily big enough for three or four groups to be in here at any one time, but we’ve all got our own styles. Football guys can’t be in here without grunting and talking smack. The swimmers spend more time gossiping like old ladies than lifting. The basketball team likes the music turned up so loud there isn’t much of an option to chat.

“Reynolds. Still gimping around, huh? When’s the cast come off?”

Mario’s guys keep going with a nod in my direction.

“Three weeks. Can’t freaking wait.”

“Thank the fuck. Those chicken legs of yours are getting damn near embarrassing.”

I take his jabs in jest. Mario and I have been leaving our blood, sweat, and tears in this room for four years, and we both know I have fucking great legs.

“Give me a few weeks, and I’ll be squatting your pansy ass under the table.”

“We’ll see.” He wipes his forehead with a towel and tosses it on his shoulder. “We’re having a party at the house next Thursday. Be cool if you guys stopped by, haven’t hung out in a while.”

“Yeah, I’ll let the guys know. Speaking of the guys, how’s Shaw doing? Team’s worried about him splitting his time. I am, too, if I’m honest. We’re gonna need him to sub in some this year. Need him to be ready.”

“I hear ya. I don’t like it, either, but he’s the best damn relief pitcher we’ve had in years. I’ll keep an eye on him as best as I can while he’s with us.”

“Ditto.”

Fucking freshman has two babysitters and almost fifty teammates between the two sports, and he’s still shaping up to be the biggest pain in the ass I’ve seen in my four years.