The Assist (Smart Jocks #1)

by Rebecca Jenshak

  “How’d you find me?”

  He waves a hand as if it isn’t a big deal, but there is a pleased grin on his face. “I follow all the happenings of the career resource center.” His expression falls. “Actually, I probably should stop in now that it’s time to start thinking about what I’m going to do after graduation.”

  “Where are you headed next?” I ask after he goes silent.

  He points to Moreno Hall. “I have macroeconomics.”

  I scrunch my nose.

  “Eh, it’ll be fine. The professor doesn’t mind if I sleep through class like Professor O’Sean.”

  “It’s infuriating that you can sleep through and still manage to get an A.”

  “Wasn’t so infuriating when I was saving your ass from failing.”

  He’s flirting . . . I think. It’s almost like the playful banter we used to have that kept me on my toes and gave me full body tingles. My head and heart are conflicted. I do forgive him, but it’s too hard to be around him like this. Wes Reynolds isn’t the kind of guy you can be friends with after you’ve had more.

  “I hear tomorrow night’s game is going to be a good one.”

  He nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Utah is tough. They run a combination defense that . . .” He stops himself, and I wonder how long it’s been since he’s talked basketball. Is he going to practices? Has he stopped sulking and started travelling with the team again? They’re questions I want to ask, but I know it would be crossing some invisible line he’s drawn.

  “Thank you for the candy,” I say instead. “I guess I’ll see you at the game.”

  “Maybe. I haven’t decided if I’m going to go.”

  “What? Why not? You have to go.” I stop and stare after him. He can’t be serious.

  He lifts one shoulder and lets it fall. “They don’t need me there.”

  “Maybe not in the way you want to be there, but they do need you. You’re their leader. You said so yourself.”

  His jaw flexes. “Enjoy the candy. Congrats on your first workshop. Text me if anyone gives you any trouble.”

  34

  Wes

  I can see the steady stream of people entering Ray Fieldhouse from the window in our living room. It’s weird to watch people come to a game decked out in blue and yellow. They hurry from their cars to the front door as excitement and hope that the home team will pull through radiates from them.

  A contradiction to the way the bus of Utah players walked in two hours earlier. Slow, taking it all in and adjusting to being in someone else’s house. They walked into my house, but it isn’t really mine anymore, and it’s fucking weird and awful. I consider where I should be. Do I go to the game and sit on the bench like I somehow still belong? Sitting in the bleachers isn’t fucking happening. That’s my team but in a completely different way than the fans think it’s their team. I built that team, and spent the last four years busting my ass. Z and I crafted a team that is strong and quick and smart.

  When the parking lot finally calms, I step out onto the front porch, and the sounds assault me. The rise and fall of the crowd cheering is my scoreboard, the refs whistle a shrill sound that brings silence that is more nerve wracking than the noise. I’m sweating, and my foot throbs as I pace back and forth, picturing it all.

  I remove my hat, pull at my hair and then stop. Gonna make myself bald with the amount of tugging I’ve been doing. I put the hat back on and pull out my phone, giving in to my temptation to check the score online. I’ve missed two texts from Blair.

  Blair: Are you here?

  Blair: Where are you? Get here NOW.

  Well, fuck, now I’m even more curious about what the hell is going on. Do they need me like the game is going bad or it’s going well and she wants me to see the team finally meshing? I’m not even sure which would hurt less.

  Or, Christ, maybe someone is messing with her. So far, people seem to have gotten the message that I’m not playing around when it comes to protecting Blair, but maybe my absence has brought out the bullies.

  I cross the street and slow down as I approach.

  “Wes! Wes!”

  I catch a mass of brown hair in my peripheral and turn. Blair is running toward me, waving her arms. We’re the only two people out here, so it isn’t like I could miss her.

  “Hey. You’re here.” Her breaths are shallow, and she puts a hand at her waist like she has a cramp from the fifty-yard jog.

  My eyes fall to her chest, where the number twelve is proudly displayed. Her eyes follow mine.

  “Everything okay? Why aren’t you inside?”

  She’s still panting as she says, “I came to find you. Why aren’t you inside?”

  “For what? I can’t play.” What about this is so fucking hard for her to understand?

  “They need you. Z looks angrier than ever and Shaw is a mess. You may not be able to play, but they need you right now. You’re still their leader.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Go see for yourself.”

  The buzzer goes off, and there is a surge of movement inside the fieldhouse.

  “Halftime,” she says. “I think they need a pep talk from you more than they do the coach. I can’t even pretend to understand your role and how much this has to suck, but I can see they are struggling and looking for someone to step up. Go be that person.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to say?”

  She grins widely, probably pleased I’m finally soliciting her words of wisdom. “I can’t pull something from my canned inspirational quotes for this one.”

  “You could try,” I grit out. Figures . . . the one fucking time I need her is the one fucking time she tells me she has nothing.

  “How about pulling from your own material, maybe something about heart and talent? It helped me when I needed it, maybe it’ll work for them too.”

  She leaves me standing there gawking after her. Even in this moment, I can appreciate how damn good she looks wearing my jersey. My name plastered across her delicate shoulders and number stretching down to her tiny waist.

  Well, looks like this is it. I either have to get in there or get the hell out of dodge before I’m spotted.

  It’s doubtful anyone is going to recognize me without my jersey, but I’m not taking any chances. I’m here for Z. The idea that he might need me, that I let him down . . . again, is more than I can take. I should be out there making sure he gets the shots he needs. Making sure the team makes it to the tournament again and ensuring Z’s name is called in the first round of the draft. That was my job.

  Coach’s voice booms down the hallway. A set of security guards blocking off entry to the locker room look me up and down, but before I have to do something embarrassing like explain who the fuck I am, the one on the right recognizes me.

  “Sorry about the foot, Reynolds. Boys sure could use you out there tonight.”

  I nod and open the door before I can talk myself out of it. It creaks shut, announcing my arrival just as Coach finishes his halftime yelling spree with the usual pep talk about coming back and working as a team.

  “Reynolds.” Coach nods and places his clipboard at his side. “You gonna join us for the second half?”

  My teammates eye me with a mixture of pity and hope.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He tosses me the clipboard. “Shaw, see Wes before you head out see if he has any notes on Utah’s defense.”

  My hands shake as I grip the board in one hand and uncap the dry erase marker with the other. I stand in front of Shaw and make x’s to represent the defense that Utah typically runs.

  “Utah runs a combination. Pressure up top and zone down low. The most important thing you need to know about their style is that they’re a bunch of selfish pricks. Talented, but selfish. They’re aggressive and they take risks, which tends to pay off because it rattles their opponents. You can’t let them rattle you. You play your game, not theirs. They want to pressure you to take the shot or make a quick pass, but
that isn’t our style. Our game is slow and smart. If you find yourself feeling rushed, you’re giving in to their game.”

  Shaw nods, but he looks as good as defeated. I sigh and give in to Blair’s advice.

  “You can do this. We can beat them. We’re just as talented, and our team has more heart. We play as a cohesive unit and get the ball to whoever has the best look—no matter what. They don’t understand how not to be selfish, and that’s how you’re going to beat them. Take your time and move the ball around to get the best look.”

  “Sounds so simple.”

  I pat him on the back, a real smile threatening at the corners of my mouth. “It is.”

  Everyone clears the locker room except for Z, who hangs back, waiting for the door to close behind Shaw.

  “I’m glad you came. Know it must be hard being here.”

  “I think it’s going to be hard either way. This way, at least I don’t feel like I’m letting you down again. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure Shaw plays the kind of ball that’ll get you in that first round.”

  “Fuck the draft.”

  My eyebrows shoot up high enough to reach the Valley hat on my head.

  “You think I care about all that more than I care about you?”

  “I . . .”

  Well, fuck, yeah that’s what I think.

  “Playing next to you these years has been an honor. God willing, I’ll get picked up in the first round, but right now I just want to know my friend is okay. Whatever you need, I’m here, just say the word.”

  “What do you say we start with a win out there tonight?”

  He smirks. “Guess that depends on the pep talk you gave rook. He ready?”

  “I sure as shit hope so,” I mutter as we exit the locker room together.

  Sitting on the sidelines during the second half is less weird than I imagined. Or maybe I’m just too glued to the action to feel anything but anxious. I’ve spent very little time on this bench during my college career and never really looked around and enjoyed the view. The way the stadium is filled with blue and yellow, the way the fans are always ready to jump to their feet to defend a bad call or cheer us on. The way one particular girl wrings her hands as she watches me instead of the guys on the floor.

  I smirk at her and give her a small nod. Her shoulders visibly relax. I’d give anything to be out on that floor, but the view from the sidelines definitely has its perks. I wonder what she looked like when she watched me play. Did she jump up and down and cheer for me? Did she watch me more than the other guys?

  We pull ahead and win the game by two points. Too close for anyone to feel like celebrating.

  “What made you decide to come?” Joel asks as we make our way back to the house. Despite Z’s monologue earlier, he’s back to quiet, headphones on and the bass pumping.

  “Blair,” I admit. “Chick’s relentless.”

  “We owe her. Having you here made all the difference,” Joel says.

  And I know just how to repay her.

  35

  Blair

  I stumble into the tutor center Monday afternoon a little defeated and a whole lot undercaffeinated. In my first week at the tutor center, I had exactly two students stop by to see me. Honestly, I think those poor souls got bad information and thought I was going to look deep into a crystal ball and uncover top-secret job opportunities with a six-figure salary on a bachelor’s degree education.

  I’m trying to remain positive. I know I can help people, but it’s harder than I expected it to be to spread the word about what I’m doing without making it sound hokey. The students who would be up for this type of thing are either hesitant about the benefit of chatting with a peer or simply don’t have time to add another to-do to their schedule. And though no one has said anything, I’m pretty sure people are avoiding me because of the nude photo ordeal. I’d expected laughter or more slimy come-ons, but it’s as if I don’t exist.

  Every passing minute is another chance to turn it all around.

  Great, now I’m thinking in Tom Cruise movie quotes. Admittedly, I binged all the ones I hadn’t seen over break. It made me feel somehow closer to Wes, which makes me officially pathetic since he spent the entire break avoiding me. Sigh. And I’m now thinking my sighs aloud.

  I pull open the library door and hold my head high. I can do this. It’s a brand-new week.

  I frown at the line that twists around the main desk and out the door of the tutor center.

  Everyone in line is tall and muscular, and each and every one of them looks underwhelmed to be here.

  Tanner Shaw gives me a head nod as I study the faces of the guys in line. I know it’s wrong to be hostile for something out of his control, but I still bristle at the sight of him.

  I find the start of the line at the doorstep of my tiny makeshift cubicle. Wes is holding the front with the look of a proud boy scout.

  Merit badge definitely earned.

  “What is this?”

  “I owed you for the other night. For lots of things. I’ve given you shit about all this”—he lifts his arms—“but the other night, I guess I realized I needed it more than I knew.”

  “So, you brought every jock you know for what? Creative hazing?”

  He covers his mouth with a fist. “Admittedly, that’s part of it, but I do think you have some things that could help each one of them. You’re good at this. Better than I gave you credit for. I just wanted to show you I see it now. I get it, and I want to support you the same way you always supported me.”

  “Thank you.” I place my backpack down beside my chair and eye the coffee cup on my desk. I pick it up and read the quote scribbled in messy penmanship. Focus. Repetition. Heart.

  “Nice touch.”

  He beams back at me like a proud pupil. “That’s a Coach Daniels’ special.”

  A look around the tutor center reveals intrigued, if a bit annoyed, glances from the tutor stations. The commotion has disrupted any chance of concentration. “Well, looks like I have my work cut out for me. You gonna stick around and make sure they don’t sneak out?”

  “Nah. I gotta do some studying.” He turns and raises his voice so the guys in line can hear him. “But I’ll stop by later and get a full report on how it went.”

  I roll my eyes. “Get out of here, Reynolds.”

  Surprisingly, the guys are good sports. A few of them even take it seriously. And when the last ball player walks out the door, there’s a new line that’s formed. Gotta give the jocks props for that. Where they go, others follow.

  Wes shows up as the tutor center is closing for the night. The last students are packing their bags and the tutors are tidying up the room. I lean back in my chair, completely spent.

  Every eye in the tutor center follows his path from door to my desk.

  “Got time for one more?”

  I sit forward and narrow my eyes. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. One side of his mouth pulls into a smile. “Then how about dinner instead?”

  “I, uh . . .” I trip over my tongue. What even are words? Did he just ask me on a date? “Sure. Let me just grab my things.”

  Silently, Wes leads me to University Hall. We order food and then take a table in the far corner. “Brought you something,” Wes says as he slides me a small gift covered in Christmas paper. On top is a handmade origami bow made from a Chewy Spree wrapper.

  Nice touch, Reynolds.

  “It’s a little belated. I didn’t get a chance to give it to you that night . . .” His words hold a hint of sadness.

  “I see you got mine.” I point to his gray T-shirt, and he looks down proudly at the black bold letters: Smart is the new jock.

  “Open yours,” he says and winks.

  I tear open the paper to find a flat, rectangular box. My throat goes dry. I’m not prepared for whatever is in this jewelry box. I pry open the top slowly and hold my breath as I reveal the bracelet inside. It’s similar to the ones Gabby and I make out of colored embroidery thread, but
there are only two colors—orange and purple. My and his favorites. My heart thumps wildly in my chest as I lift it and study the letter beads that twist around the braided thread. BLESS

  “No way,” I say in complete disbelief. “Where did you get this?”

  “I, uh, may have commissioned it?”

  I lift a brow.

  “Gabby,” he says, looking a little guilty.

  “Gabby was in on this?” I inspect the bracelet and see her in the smooth braid, the neat knots at either end. I can’t believe she kept this a secret. “I love it. Thank you.”

  “I have one other gift. Though, it isn’t from me.”

  I narrow my gaze, intrigued. “Okay. Who’s it from? Did you get Vanessa to write me a poem?”

  He shakes his head. “Let’s call it a gift from the university. David was expelled today.”

  All the air leaves my lungs as he continues.

  “The campus police received several anonymous tips leading them to him, and when he was questioned, he folded. All the evidence was on his laptop anyway.”

  “He’s gone,” I whisper. I expected to feel better, but the damage is already done. I’m glad I won’t have to see him, but I guess I’d already eradicated him from my life.

  “You know, if you pressed charges, he could be charged with a felony. Laws in Arizona are strict about this kind of thing.”

  A nervous laugh escapes at the scary expression on his face. Wes is pissed and ready to see David pay. Me too. “I haven’t decided what to do yet. I made an appointment with a counselor for later this week and I need to tell my parents. That’s going to be hard.”

  His jaw flexes before he speaks. “I’m really sorry I didn’t stop this from happening. I failed you in so many ways.”

  The loyalty of this man never ceases to amaze me. “David’s crimes aren’t yours. It’s not on you. I just want to move on. I let him hold me back for too long. Whatever I decide to do, it’s going to be about me – what’s best for me. Part of me thinks I just want to be free of him, but I don’t know if I could live with myself if I don’t see this through and make sure he never has the opportunity to do this to someone else.”