The Assist (Smart Jocks #1)

by Rebecca Jenshak

  “Is everything okay?” Her voice is tentative.

  “Everything is perfect. I’m sorry I left you alone while you were upset. You doing okay?”

  “I’m so embarrassed,” she says as she buries her face against my chest.

  “What are you embarrassed about?”

  “For all of it. Sending him the pictures to begin with, being too mortified to stand up to him, letting him use me, getting you involved. I’m especially sorry about that. Are you going to get into trouble because of this?”

  “Nah, he’s too much of a coward to tell anyone. Besides, it was worth it. You’re worth it.”

  Because I freaking love you. I love you.

  “The stupidest part is I didn’t even want to send him the pictures. I know lots of girls do it, and that’s cool. I totally respect a woman’s right to sexy pictures without labeling her a slut, but I did it for all the wrong reasons. He was really possessive, and I was trying to prove that I cared for him and that there was no reason for him to play the jealous boyfriend card all the time. We were fighting a lot, and I thought, ‘hey maybe this will show him.’ Sounds really dumb now.”

  “Not dumb at all.” I squeeze her a little tighter. “You were fighting for something you believed in.”

  “Yeah, like I said, incredibly dumb.”

  “Stop talking about my girl like that. She’s smart, gorgeous, caring, and she didn’t deserve what he did to her.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” I lift her chin so I can see her eyes. “You didn’t deserve what he did. Even if you’d been the worst girlfriend on the planet, which we both know you weren’t, you didn’t deserve to be exploited and blackmailed.”

  The war in her eyes tugs at my emotions, which are bouncing around like a ball in a pinball machine. I want so badly to tell her how I feel about her and make her promises I have no business making. Promises to protect and love.

  Tonight isn’t about my feelings, though. It’s about hers.

  As I roll over on top of her, I kiss her tenderly, taking my time and expressing everything I can’t say with gentle caresses and strokes. When I’m finally inside her, I look deep into her eyes and wonder if she can feel the shift between us or if it’s just me who’s careening into the unknown.

  25

  Blair

  I slide into my seat after having pushed and clawed my way through the crowd at Ray Fieldhouse. Vanessa scoots down, making room for me, and Mario gives me a small wave from the other side of my friend.

  “What took you so long? The game is about to start.”

  You’d think it was her boyfriend who was getting ready to play instead of mine. I’m not worried about the game. Wes has been on fire all season. He’s playing amazing, the team is winning, and he’s even helped bring Shaw into the group; although, he still doesn’t seem thrilled about that last part.

  Tonight is the last home game before Christmas break. Wes and the guys only get a week off. I’m heading to Succulent Hill to spend my break binge watching holiday movies, eating too many sugar cookies, and sleeping with no fear of missing class and no grueling study sessions keeping me up to all hours.

  To be fair, the grueling study sessions usually ended with me naked in Wes’s bed, so I can’t really complain too much about that. And since I’ve been managing only my own course load, the semester had flowed along nicely.

  “I was waiting for my final stat grade to be posted.”

  Vanessa pries her eyes away from the court where both teams are taking the floor. “Well? Did your private tutor make it worth your while?”

  My face warms. Did he ever. “Grades aren’t up yet.”

  “I’m sure you pulled an A. Even if you only studied a quarter of the time you two were together you should have been able to ace the final.”

  He’s been insatiable this week, and I’ve been happy to provide stress relief in the form of letting him use my body as a distraction. It isn’t as if I’m not getting mine as well. If I’m honest, it’s been a good distraction for both of us. I’ve not seen or heard from David, but I’m still looking over my shoulder expecting him to pop up out of nowhere.

  Arizona State wins the tip off and the game begins. The energy in the room is bursting. The pep band works through their material, the cheerleaders are dancing along, and the fans are on their feet. The student section, enthusiastic as ever, is overflowing with students who are burned out on classes and ready to see our team win one before we head off to see family and visit hometown friends. But the game is a back and forth, both teams playing hard and not giving an inch. As we go to halftime, the score is tied and my nerves are shot.

  Determination and sweat drips off him. I stare hard at him as he follows the team off the court, willing him to somehow find me amongst the crowd. He doesn’t look up. He’s in whatever fog or bubble he creates to stay focused and not let the fans, the other team, or even amazingly hot girls distract him.

  “I’m gonna go get some popcorn,” I say to Vanessa and Mario. “Want anything?”

  They shake their heads and make the exact same scrunched up face to indicate no. They’re freaking adorable, but I keep that to myself. Vanessa would just roll her eyes if I said so. She’s been unable to stay away from him, but I know she’s still skittish, and I’m not giving her any reason to back off. Mario is good for her.

  The line to the concession is long, and I slide in behind a couple of high school girls. I would say they were freshman, but even freshman know better than to wear that much makeup or skirts that short.

  “Joel Moreno is definitely the hottest player,” one of the girls says and fans her face. “And his family is like super rich. My sister had English with him senior year, and she said he wore a different pair of Jordan’s every month.”

  I’ve seen Joel’s many pairs of shoes strewn around the house and can confirm he has enough for that statement to be true.

  The other girl chirps in after showing her amaze and wonder with an actual jaw drop. “Joel is hot, but Wes Reynolds is my favorite. Have you noticed he started wearing a sweatband on his right wrist?”

  Her friend shakes her head, but I smile. I have to force myself from butting into their conversation to politely inform her that he started wearing the blue band to hide the bracelet Gabby made for him.

  “Watch him when he shoots free throws. He kisses it before each shot for good luck or something. I wonder what it means. Think someone died or something?”

  He does?

  The girls keep talking. I vaguely hear them speculate between it being a death in the family or an injured teammate who passed it down, but it’s background noise to the reel in my head analyzing his free throw ritual. All the guys have them. Some dribble two or three times, count to two, and a million other variations. No matter the intricacies, it’s the exact same every time. Wes’s ritual is burned into my memory. Breathe out, spin ball with both hands, one dribble, count to two, shoot.

  I exit the line and make my way back to my seat.

  “What happened to popcorn?” Vanessa asks.

  “The line was too long.”

  The team is back on the floor, and I follow Wes’s every move watching and waiting for him to step behind the line to practice free throws. He doesn’t, and the coach calls them over before I can confirm the ramblings of my boyfriend’s high school fan.

  I pray to the basketball gods that Wes gets fouled taking a shot. Not my proudest moment, but I’m desperate to see if it’s true. Has he somehow incorporated me into the ritual? What else could it mean? I’m glued to the action, holding my breath every time Wes has the ball and practically growling every time it leaves his hands.

  When he’s finally fouled driving to the basket, I jump and cheer so loudly Vanessa side-eyes me. I don’t pay her any mind. Wes lines up to take his shots, and the rest of the men on the court take their spots along the outside of the lane and at half court. The ref bounces the ball to Wes, who then begins his ritual.

  Breath
e out, spin the ball with both hands, dribble. And just as I’ve decided the girl in the concession line must have been mistaken, he brings the ball up to jaw level and touches the sweatband to his mouth. I could almost believe he’s just wiping his mouth it’s so quick. So quick and fluid that I don’t know if I ever would have seen it on my own.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper and grin like a fool as he takes the shot and it swishes through the net. I cheer along with the rest of the home-team fans, but I’m already giddy as I wait to see it again. With the ball in his hands, ready to take the second shot, he restarts the process and just like last time, the quick kiss of his right wrist before he shoots is unmistakable.

  “I think he’s in love with me,” I say, turning to Vanessa as the crowd cheers the point made.

  Her mouth quirks up. “Duh.”

  “Oh, you’re one to talk.” I nod to Mario, and as if on cue, he turns and gives Vanessa an adoring smile.

  “So we’re freaking in love.” She rolls her eyes, but I can read her well. She’s happier than I can ever remember her being.

  “Are you gonna talk to him about it?” Vanessa asks, both our eyes glued back to the court. There’s a time out and the cheerleaders wave their pom poms in front of us screaming about Valley pride.

  “I don’t know. He’s been pretty clear that whatever we’re doing isn’t serious.”

  “He’s made that clear or you’re too chicken shit to ask him and assume that’s what he thinks?”

  “Okay, fine, I’ve been too chicken to ask, but his schedule is insane and is just going to get crazier. The season goes until April, if they’re lucky, and then he graduates in May. After that, there’s no telling where he’ll end up. Meanwhile, I’m going to be here.”

  “You’re spinning. Take a breath. Just talk to him about it. You two have managed to make it work for this long, and it’s been an eventful semester.”

  “No kidding.”

  Arizona State has possession of the ball after the timeout. Wes is guarding their point man, giving me a view of the serious and determined look on his face as he provides a barrier between the opposing player and his teammates. His opponent has him on height and size, but my man is faster. The guy fakes right and passes left, but Wes gets his hand on the ball and sends it sailing toward the half court line. Both players take off as fast as they can, but Wes gets there first.

  The crowd is on their feet, screaming Wes’s name and jumping like the basket has already been made. But the other team isn’t giving up that easy. Wes drives to the basket, power and confidence. He explodes up toward the rim, the ball safely tucked in one of those big hands of his. The defense is tight against him, a step behind, but so close that the crowd holds their breath as the ball leaves Wes’s hands.

  I follow the ball as it goes up and into the net. A whistle is called, and the ref signals a foul on the play, granting the basket and giving Wes an opportunity to make it a three-point play. I’m lost to the explosion of cheers around me. There’s a commotion on the floor. Wes and a player in a red jersey are lying in a heap on the floor from the contact. His groan is the first signal something is wrong. Wes’s face is angled down, his body curled into a ball, but he reaches for his foot and my stomach drops.

  Everything happens in slow motion. The coach and some other guys wearing Valley University polos circle Wes, making it hard for me to see what’s going on. I grab on to Vanessa’s arm at some point, holding on to her tightly because I don’t trust my legs to hold me.

  There’s movement, and he stands with the help of three other guys. The crowd cheers around me, but I’m silent. He’s favoring his foot, holding it in a way that hurts my heart and sends a million what-if scenarios shuffling through my head. There’s some back and forth between Wes and the coach, but he hobbles to the free-throw line, making it clear he’s going to take his shot.

  Z steps up behind Wes, and his lips move, but I can’t make out what he says. Wes nods once, his mouth set into a grim line. All but two players from the opposing team move back. I hate them for even considering that he might not make the shot, even knowing they’re just doing what makes sense.

  Still, sensibility has nowhere to sit in the crowd of emotions pushing around inside me.

  Wes has the ball. A calm sense of routine eases the hard lines of his face. Breathe out, spin the ball with both hands, dribble once . . . but the kiss of his right wrist is lost. He completes the sequence like it never changed. There’s no indication in the rhythm or his features that says he’s missed a step. It’s as if it were never part of it at all and I just imagined it. The ball leaves his hand and bounces around the rim before slipping through the net.

  Coach Daniels calls a timeout, and Joel and Z flank Wes, leading him off the court.

  26

  Wes

  “I’m afraid the news isn’t great, son.”

  No shit.

  I don’t look up at the doctor as he slaps my x-ray onto a lighted screen. From my peripheral, I can see he’s pointing, but I don’t need to see it to know it’s broken. I knew it the second it happened.

  “You’ve re-broken the fifth metatarsal.”

  “How long will I be out? Same recovery time?”

  He hesitates, and I grind my teeth impatiently. “This is much more serious. The bones have displaced this time.”

  “How long?” I growl, not caring that I sound like an asshole.

  “You’ll need surgery. Three months, maybe four until you’re—”

  “Three months? The season will be over in three months. My college career will be over in three months.”

  His eyes are solemn. “I’m sorry, Wes. I know it’s crap news.”

  “What if I don’t have the surgery? I could wear a boot for a few weeks, finish the season and then have the surgery.” It sounds crazy even to my own ears.

  “You need the surgery. The bones aren’t sitting properly. Even if you wanted to grin and bear it, this is just going to get worse every time you put pressure on the foot. You aren’t going to be able to play competitively with this type of injury until you’ve had the surgery and healed properly. I’m sorry.”

  The doctor leaves and a nurse comes in to get my signature on a stack of papers. I sign them without reading the fine print. What the hell could it possibly say that would make this any worse?

  Coach steps in as they prep me for surgery. I’ve taken off my jersey for the last time, and it sits awkwardly between us in a clear plastic bag. He shuffles from one foot to the other. It’s obvious he has no idea what to say, but I’m glad he doesn’t try to pacify me with words of hope and encouragement. We’re two quiet men, each stewing with his own version of this nightmare.

  “The team is out in the waiting room.”

  “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

  “I figured as much, but I wanted you to know they’re here just the same. There’s a pretty brunette out there pacing the floor too. That the girlfriend?”

  Blair.

  I nod.

  “She has the stubborn look of a woman who isn’t leaving until she sees you.”

  “That sounds like her.” A small smile cracks and then falls. “Tell her to go home. Tell all of them to go home. They aren’t doing me any favors by being here. I just want to be alone.”

  “I’ll tell them,” he says and backs out of the room, stopping with one foot in and one foot out. “Won’t be responsible for kicking anyone out who doesn’t want to go, but I’ll tell them.”

  As his steps echo down the hall, I lie back and close my eyes. I embrace the pain. I’d embrace it every day if it meant I could keep playing and see this season through.

  I can’t think about what’s next or what tomorrow will bring . . . what I’ll say to those people in the waiting room. My request may scare off some of my teammates, but I know when I wake up, Coach, my roommates, and Blair will be waiting for me. Waiting to reassure me and pamper me. I don’t want any of it. I want to crawl into a hole and fixate until I�
�ve come up with a plan to rewind time or gain another year of college eligibility with Z.

  This was our year.

  It was our fucking year.

  I crack one eye open, then the other. Reflexively, I close them both. The light in the room makes the fog in my head swim. There’s movement beside me and then her touch. I’d recognize it anywhere—even drugged and pissed at the world, apparently.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “What?” Her voice is shaky and quiet like she’s talking to an invalid. Guess that’s me.

  “I asked what are you wearing? Leather skirt maybe, halter top, sexy nurse? Give me a visual.”

  “Jeans and your jersey,” she says with a hint of humor in her voice. “I’m sorry I’m not dressed like a puppet from your teenage wet dreams.”

  I peek out at her beautiful face and let my eyes wander to the jersey she wears, the one I’ll never put on again. I close my eyes to squeeze away the pain. “I’m pretty sure my teenage wet dreams always included chicks wearing my jersey.”

  I joke with her, even though I don’t feel like being funny. I’d really like to send her away and drown in misery, but I think I’m more likely to get her to leave if I pretend I’m okay instead of a man who has lost a piece of his soul.

  I open both eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the light and finding her face. Looking at her heals and breaks me. I’ll never be the same, and whoever I was when she met me? He’s gone. Maybe she knows it, maybe she doesn’t. Her eyes give nothing away as she tries a hesitant smile.

  Regardless of how I’ve changed, I still want her. She’s maybe the only thing I’ve ever been certain about besides basketball. But even as I realize this, I know my actions won’t back up my feelings. Sometimes, we make bad decisions not because we aren’t aware but because it feels good to cause pain. That’s how I feel as I plan to break her heart and mine.