Beauty and the Baller(23)

Ignoring her, I walk down the hallway, past the locker room, and outside to the field. My eyes rake over it, scanning the perfectly trimmed grass, the bright-white lines, the Bobcat in the center. Calm washes over me.

I grew up in a poor neighborhood outside Chicago with a mom who waited tables and worked at a paper mill. My dad deserted us by the time I was six. I can’t even recall what he looks like. Tall, I guess.

He spun out of our driveway on a rainy March evening, my mom with one baby on each hip, me at her feet, crying. Too much too soon, she told me years later, which was a fuck of a lot nicer than how I’d put it. He was weak. A loser. My jaw clenches. A kid never forgets being abandoned, and if anything, it’s made me more determined, smarter, and very, very careful about my commitments.

When my middle school gym teacher saw I’d sprouted six inches over the summer, he took me to the coaches. I tried shooting hoops but couldn’t make anything from the three-point range, but when the football coach placed that pigskin in my hand, my body hummed. I threw a perfect spiral down the field—and my life goals were born.

I never looked back.

Whitney came along at a time when I longed for something permanent, tired of the revolving door of girlfriends. I loved her deeply and planned a life with her.

“Have you ever met her before?” Lois asks, making every step I do. “In New York?”

“Who?”

“Don’t pretend—”

I stop. “Lois. Get your ass off my field.”

She sucks on her inhaler. “Got it.”



The waitress at Randy’s Roadhouse stares at the long scar on my face, and I pull down my hat and look at the menu. I meant to sit in the seat across from me, the one that puts my scars to the window, but Skeeter took it first. “I’ll have the brisket with steamed broccoli, a plain salad, and water to drink.”

She turns to Skeeter, who orders a double cheeseburger, large fries, and a draft beer. We eat together most weeknights after practice. He was already doing offense when I came, and I kept him. Mild mannered and jovial off the field, he becomes a force of nature when he coaches.

After our food comes, Sonia Blackwell, the science teacher, walks in the door, pauses when she sees us, and then comes over. Petite with shoulder-length dark hair and glasses, she’s wearing a bright-green shirt with an avocado on it and slacks. We murmur our hellos.

She adjusts her glasses. “Skeeter. So I heard about the lice—”

“What? Has another team got it?” He slams down his beer. “I knew it. It’s gonna be an epidemic.”

She shrugs. “No, um, I was just wondering if you come across one, maybe save it for me? You could bring it to the science lab in a cup or something.” She smiles, a dimple in each cheek. “We’re studying reproduction, and the female louse doesn’t need the egg to be fertilized to have a nit. Those things are bloody fascinating.”

I put down my bite of brisket. Ready to watch the show.

Skeeter shakes his head, a large bite of burger in his mouth. He chews furiously, then wipes his face. “Hell no, Sonia. I ain’t touching those things with a ten-foot pole, and neither are my boys. They’re a menace. Remember fifth grade?” He glares at her. “I do. And today I cleaned fifty-two helmets with Lysol. If I see a louse, I’m gonna stomp on it, then flush that fucker.”

Red steals up her face. “Oh, yeah, well, I, um, just thought it would be cool through a microscope.” She looks away from us.

This is what I know. They’ve known each other since school. Sonia has a crush. Skeeter is clueless. She’s a fearless teacher, but when it comes to him, she flops around like a fish. My take is he was popular and she was the shy nerd.

“If I see a louse, I’ll text you, Sonia. You want to join us?” I ask, noticing she came in by herself.

She glances at Skeeter, and I kick him under the table. He grunts, then darts a look at me. I nudge my head at her, and he gets a confused look on his face; then realization dawns. “Um, yeah, you wanna eat with us?”

“You guys have already gotten your food.” She shrugs. “I guess not.”

“We don’t mind,” I offer as Skeeter focuses back on his burger.

The hostess, who’s been lingering, asks Sonia if she wants to go to her table, and she gives her a jerky nod. She stops about halfway to her table, her voice rising. “Nova!”

My head snaps around to the girl who just breezed in the double doors and heads to the bar area. She’s wearing denim shorts and a blue T-shirt with red cowboy boots, and her hair shines under the light, straight as an arrow down her tanned shoulders. She sees Sonia, then rushes over to give her a hug.

Skeeter follows my eyes. “Nova really let you have it at the party.” He chuckles. “She’s usually sweet, but you had to go and ruin her roses.”

I scowl. “It was Jenny.”

He smirks as he chews on a fry. “In college, she talked me into a tattoo. She couldn’t get anyone to go with her, and I was game.” He pushes up his shirt and shows me the number fifty-seven. “That’s my high school number when we won state. She got Trouble at the top of her ass. With yellow roses around it. Those are her thing, so you really messed up when you ruined them.”

“I didn’t,” I growl.

“She was crazy fun. Spunky.” A frown flits over his face. “Then everything went to hell . . .”