King of the Court
by
Melanie Munton
King of the Court
Copyright © 2017 Melanie Munton
All rights reserved
Cover Design by L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations
www.mayhemcovercreations.com
eBook Edition
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This is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Playlist
Hail to the King - Avenged Sevenfold
Break Stuff - Limp Bizkit
Feel Invincible - Skillet
Back in Black - AC/DC
Jungle - X Ambassadors
Cheap Thrills - Sia
Enter Sandman - Metallica
Kiss Me - Ed Sheeran
Warriors - Imagine Dragons
‘Till I Collapse - Eminem
Thunderstruck - AC/DC
Hypnotize - The Notorious B.I.G.
Pong Dance - Vigiland
Berzerk - Eminem
Party Up - DMX
Shots & Squats - Vigiland, Tham Sway
The Next Episode - Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg
Outta Your Mind - Lil Jon, LMFAO
You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid - The Offspring
Burn it to the Ground - Nickelback
Give Me Love - Ed Sheeran
Suga Suga - Baby Bash, Frankie J
Beautiful Pain - Eminem, Sia
Sail - AWOLNATION
The Way I Do - Bishop Briggs
Believer - Imagine Dragons
Perfect - Ed Sheeran
Outta Control - 50 Cent
This Means War - Avenged Sevenfold
In the Air Tonight - Kelly Sweet
Survival - Eminem
Legacy - Eminem
Stole the Show - Kygo, Parson James
Prologue
Cam
I stared—more like glared—at the white coat-toting doctor who was currently threatening to destroy my life.
“That’s impossible,” I said in disbelief. “The surgery I had four years ago repaired my patella tendon.”
Dr. Kowalski’s face fell in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Donovan, but this can sometimes happen, especially with such a critical part of the body. As active as you are, and with your prior injuries, a re-tear like this was always a possibility.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said, scooting forward to the edge of the exam table. “The patella tendon can rupture, like mine did. But even after major open-knee surgery and a year’s worth of intensive physical therapy, it can still tear all over again?”
He nodded forlornly. “I’m afraid so.”
No, no, no.
Just fucking no.
I scrubbed my hands down my face, blowing out a heavy breath. “How bad is it?”
He stepped over to the X-rays clipped to the fluorescent screen, pointing with the tip of his pen. “It’s not a rupture, like you had before. This is a minor tear and wouldn’t require surgery. At least, not at this point.”
My stomach sank as if it were filled with lead. “And by that you mean…?”
His expression turned grave. “It could become more serious. Despite how you strengthened your knee after your surgery, it’s still weak and very susceptible to injury. All it would take is one nasty fall, or even landing on it wrong, for it to completely rupture again.”
No way in hell was this happening again. I could not go through what I went through four years ago. Not this year. Not now.
“But I don’t need surgery?”
He shook his head. “No, but I can’t stress enough how fragile the tendon is right now. The best thing for it is rest and immobilization.”
A harsh laugh burst from me. The good doctor must have been out of his damn mind.
“Can’t do that, Doc. Basketball practice has already begun, and the season starts next month. The one thing I’m not going to be able to do is stay off of it.”
He sighed and adjusted his glasses. “I understand your obligations, Mr. Donovan. But you really need to monitor this.”
“I will.” As much as I can. “I’ll wear a brace and ice it between practices and games.”
This was all I needed this year. On top of everything else, I now had to worry about a recurring knee injury that had the potential to bring my entire college career to a grinding, abrupt halt. Too soon. Before I could effectively stamp my name alongside so many others in the annals of college basketball legacies.
Over my dead body that would happen.
“I would suggest doing regular physical therapy exercises, too,” Dr. Kowalski said. “I can put you in touch with someone who would work around your schedule.”
I rubbed the tension from my neck. “Nah, I already got a guy.” In a manner of speaking.
Gus, the old team trainer, wasn’t someone I wanted to confide in about this issue, and the fewer people who knew about it, the better. Because the other thing I didn’t need? The press getting wind of this and going ape-shit with it. Hounding me for interviews, speculating on what this meant for the season, and projecting all kinds of negative crap toward me and my North Calhoun University teammates.
My guys had to keep their heads in the right places. And knowing their star leader had a season-threatening injury was not going to boost team morale. With one simple news headline, the entire country could either be rooting for you, or rooting against you. They could love you or hate you. They could have total and complete faith in you, or be a bunch of doubting Thomases.
We needed ev
eryone to be behind us, in our corner, if we wanted to go all the way to the national championship this year.
I needed that.
Which meant that no one outside of this exam room could find out about my injury.
“Under the circumstances, Doc,” I said, “I hope I can count on your discretion regarding this…situation.”
He patted my shoulder in reassurance. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. This will stay between us.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Just…” I glanced up when he trailed off. “Just take care of it, okay?”
I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Damn straight I would.
Because I had missed my entire freshman season due to the first round of this ruptured patella tendon nightmare, I was now a red shirt senior. It was not the time for another trip to the surgeon, followed by weeks spent on crutches while I watched my team play their asses off without me.
I had been one of the top high school basketball players recruited for collegiate greatness five years ago. My injury that had prevented me from playing my entire freshman year had made national headlines. And frankly, I hadn’t been able to stay out of the headlines ever since.
The media hadn’t just covered my skills on the court over the years, either. No. That would have been too easy. They had invaded my personal life, delved into my familial history, and tracked my numerous non-relationships with women. These days, athletes were on the same level as the biggest celebrity names in Hollywood. And as such, nothing was off-limits to the press. Apparently, everyone thought I was so great that they’d even come up with a name for me by the end of my sophomore year.
The King of the Court.
Basically, it was on par with Mr. October, The Great One, and Dr. J. But for college basketball.
My teammates thought it was badass. My mom thought it was adorable.
I thought it was ridiculous.
I wasn’t the king of anything and didn’t pretend to be. Sure, I had busted my ass over the years to get where I was today, but I wasn’t anything special. Did I want to be the best? Hell, yes. But I couldn’t win a championship by myself. I had always been taught to be a team player and damn it, that’s what I was trying to do. I’d played along with the name over the years, making a joke of it more than anything. Sort of playing up the image for the cameras. But if the press wanted to talk about how great I was, they should be giving credit to the rest of my team, too.
But no matter what I said or what I did, whenever college basketball was mentioned anywhere, my name was the first thing that came to people’s minds. They had made me the face of the entire sport, and I hated it. I just wanted to be left alone to play the game I loved without some reporter shoving their mic into my face, asking me about the party I’d been photographed at the night before with some no-name co-ed on my arm.
Needless to say, the media had been building up the hype of “Cam Donovan’s senior year” before my junior year had even ended. The preseason rankings had already come out and, no surprise, NCU was in the number one spot. We were projected to win the whole damn thing.
The tournament. The Big Show.
We were the predicted champions.
No pressure or anything.
There was a lot riding on this year. Everyone wanted this championship. Our university wanted it, our town wanted it, our conference wanted it. Our fellow NCU students, our coaches, my teammates. And obviously, I wanted it. But as much as I loved my team and our coaching staff, the person I cared about the most was my mother.
She wanted it for me. And I wanted to give her that.
She had sacrificed so much to put me in all the basketball camps she could afford when I was growing up. Traveling leagues, tournaments. You name it, she made sure I was in it. Our relationship was one of the most featured stories about me and my rise to basketball stardom. The single mother raising her only son. The close bond we had. The fact that she hadn’t missed a single one of my games since I’d started playing school sports in seventh grade. Winning the NACA—the National Association for Collegiate Athletics—men’s basketball tournament was the culmination of both our collective dreams.
So, yeah. I was going to grit my teeth and fight through this damn knee pain, keeping my mouth shut about the whole thing until the season was over. I would hobble around and play on one foot if I had to.
Because we deserved this.
My mom deserved this.
I was the media’s golden boy. The entire country was watching me, waiting for me to screw up somehow, whether it was on the court or off. The media were always jonesing for that one negative breaking news story.
But I had news for them.
Nothing and no one was going to bring me down. Not defaming interviews or shameful articles about my character. Not unflattering pictures of me in the papers. And damn sure not reports about a supposed injury that would give anyone reason to doubt my capabilities.
Because I was the motherfucking King of the Court.
And this was my kingdom.
1
Reese
The Mayans had gotten it wrong. The world hadn’t ended on December 21, 2012. Obviously. It seemed, though, they had just been a little premature with their prediction. The day they should have marked as the end of the world was November 6, 2017.
Unfortunately, that day was today.
Doomsday. Bom, bom, bom.
Of course, it would happen before the final season of Game of Thrones aired. Typical.
Today, I was going to start my new job as the student trainer for the North Calhoun University men’s basketball team. Technically, it was an internship since I was still a graduate student in the physical therapy program at NCU. Not that the title changed anything. I still had to be present at most practices and attend all games, even the away games, to monitor the athletes’ health and tend to any injuries.
Shoot me now.
The basketball part didn’t bother me. In fact, I loved basketball. I’d even played all four years on my high school varsity team. I wanted to specialize in sports physical therapy, so being a trainer was the perfect situation. But I had specifically applied for an internship as trainer for the women’s basketball team.
Not. The. Men’s.
For two reasons. One, guys were obnoxious and annoying and had a tendency to make suggestive remarks about a female trainer, while snickering and giggling like a bunch of school girls. In my experience, female athletes were much easier to work with, and they don’t usually try to grope you. Usually.
Two, my father, Eric Bradley, was the coach of the men’s team. And we weren’t exactly on the best of terms.
Maybe it was because he and my mom had divorced when I was fourteen, and I hadn’t seen a whole lot of him since because of his coaching jobs. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t made a whole lot of effort to stay in touch with me over the years. Or maybe it was because I could count on one hand how many times we’d had any kind of special father-daughter moments since the divorce.
Today marked the first day I would see him in almost six months. I had a sneaky suspicion that he’d had something to do with me ending up on the men’s team instead of the women’s. Though I wasn’t sure why he would have cared either way. For the aforementioned reasons, it didn’t make any sense why he would have instigated something that would lead to us spending more time together.
All day, I’d been preparing myself for the moment when the sky fell black, and the ground disappeared beneath my feet. Because the world was most certainly about to end.
I just hoped I’d have time to eat one final Snickers bar before the fire and brimstone.
I flashed my new personnel badge to the security guard posted at the front entrance of the locker room tunnel inside the NCU stadium complex, and pushed through the heavy metal door. Walking down the dark tunnel, I steeled my shoulders and took deep breaths. I had to be ready for this new world I was about to step into and become a part of. One that included
my distant father and a whole bunch of brawny, cocky jock-types.
I approached the team’s locker room and was grateful to find it empty. Of course, it’s empty. You showed up late to practice for a reason. Okay, yeah, so maybe I had taken a few extra turns on my way here. And skirted through a Starbucks drive-through. And sat in my car in the parking lot for about half an hour. Perhaps I had been avoiding facing what was about to happen.
But I was no coward.
At least, not as of this moment.
Taking in the scene around me, I quickly familiarized myself with the large room. Open lockers lined each wall, duffel bags were scattered across the floor, random clothing items were haphazardly strewn on stools and benches, and… Oh, thank God.
There was no overpowering, funky man smell.
I mean, there was a bit of a musty odor to the air. But it wasn’t nose hair-burning horrible.
I heard some shuffling noises coming from a side room to my left. I followed the sounds, dodging shoes and water bottles and towels as I went. Thankfully, it was the training room, and I immediately recognized the back of the older gentleman standing at an open supply cabinet.
“They haven’t retired your number yet?” I asked, unable to stop a grin from forming.
Dr. Gus Iglehart, the long-time NCU men’s team trainer, spun around, a smile instantly lighting up his face. “Well, as I live and breathe. Reese Bradley.” He pulled me in for a hug. “How long did you contemplate turning this gig down before you finally realized that would have been stupid and sucked it up instead?”
“About the time it took me to drink three bottles of wine,” I deadpanned.
He lifted an eyebrow. “So, about two hours?”
“You know me so well, Gus.”
Gus had been a fixture in the physical therapy department for decades, so every PT student knew who he was. He had taught some anatomy classes for years, but had spent his last fifteen with the university as the men’s basketball team trainer. Quite frankly, you didn’t go through any of the medical programs at NCU without encountering Gus at least once.
For many of us, he had become a great mentor and even better friend. The fact that he was in his mid-sixties and often bullshitted around with us like he was still in his twenties only made me love him more. He and I had developed a special bond over the years. I had come to view him as sort of a grandfatherly figure.
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