Slammed Read online

  He taps his ear. “I hear a lot.”

  I start washing the soap off, the water scorching just the way I like it. “That was a long time ago.”

  Tyson starts washing his junk. “Well, as much as I like seeing Charleston cop a beating—because, let’s face it, he is an asshat—Coach is right. We’ve got to start winning some games.” He pokes me in the chest, surprised by the way his finger seems unable to penetrate my abs. It ricochets off. “You eat concrete for breakfast, Compton? Damn.”

  “You were saying?”

  “I was saying you can help us do it. You can play. Hell, you could be big time, but you’ve got to be a team player, you hear me?”

  I nod. “I do.”

  I look back over at Charleston, pleased to see his dick’s the size of a pencil. I turn back to Tyson. “Say, what does everyone do around here for fun?”

  “Booze, banging, and basketball. Sometimes in that order. There’s a party over at Sigma Nu tomorrow.”

  “The jock place?”

  Tyson gives me a look of disapproval. “Easy, I’m a pledge there.”

  “You don’t seem like the type.”

  “Because I’m black?”

  “Because you have a brain.”

  “I won’t deny it, but really, you should swing by. I’ll vouch for you.”

  “Thanks,” and I mean it. I know most of the team was uneasy about my sudden appearance here, the mystery sports scholarship, the fact I didn’t come from one of their hoity-toity high schools. They’re been treating me like the black sheep ever since, but if they want to win they better wise up. I grew up on the streets where ball was more than a way of life. It was a religion, and boy did I pray. They’re soft. They’re weak. I’m not. No, I’m something they’ve never seen before.

  I’m chaos incarnate.

  *

  ‘Just call me Dana’ peers over the top of her designer glasses, legs crossed, and her genuine Eames recliner squeaking every time she shifts position. “So, how are you settling into campus life, Nate?”

  The Dean requires me to sit in once a week with the campus psychologist as part of my scholarship conditions, but her condescending tone has me on edge.

  I shrug. “Fine, I suppose.”

  “Have you made any friends?”

  “I’m living in a granny flat at the back of Coach Smith’s house with a bed only my shoulders seem to fit into. It’s not exactly Party Central.”

  “That’s not what I asked, Nate. I asked if you’ve made any friends.”

  “No.”

  She looks down at her clipboard. “I have your records here, you know.”

  I don’t know whether she wants me to reply or not, suddenly start confessing my sad life story. “And?”

  “You’ve had some issues with… anger, in the past.”

  I cross my arms in front of myself, arms burning from training earlier. “What about it?”

  “There’s no need to be defensive, Nate. This is a safe place.”

  I scoff.

  “You were in the foster system growing up?”

  “I was.”

  “And what was that like?”

  “It fucking sucked. Is that what you want to know?”

  “Calm down. I’m not trying to attack you. We’re just talking.”

  That’s what he used to call it when he used me as his punching bag—having a talk.

  I uncross my arms and lean forward, my temples suddenly pulsing looking at this woman and her judging eyes, her ‘all knowing’ demeanor. She doesn’t know me. “You want to get inside my head. Is that it? You want to know why I’m so angry and broken?”

  She places her hand out. “Like I said, I just want to talk about whatever you want. Open up to me.”

  “Open up to you? What do you know about where I’ve come from? What do you know about the street? About starving every night?”

  She remains silent.

  “Just what I fucking thought.”

  I stand up, knocking a bowl of mints off the table in my haste. I storm out of there, my blood pumping, my head pounding.

  I eye people as I walk, ask them what they’re staring at. It’s like they’ve never seen someone with a tattoo before.

  It’s only when I’m safely back at the flat, Coach’s trophy cabinet watching on, that I allow myself to breathe.

  *

  Tyson slaps me on the ass again, and again he almost loses his head. “You’ve really got to stop doing that.”

  “You’ve got a nice ass. What can I say?”

  “Are you...?”

  “Gay?” He laughs. “Hell, no. Short, black, and gay? I’m not trying to win the minority lottery here. No, I’d be happy with some of that sweet cheerleader action, one with that double Dutch butt. You know what I’m saying?”

  I look past the guy in front of me to the court, the cheerleaders jumping around like enthusiastic Playboy bunnies. I know their type, too. I’ve had my fair share of bimbos. They’re fun for about an hour. After that you’d find better conversation with a cinder block.

  It’s dark here waiting in the tunnel, but I can hear the crowd, hear the energy. For a moment I’m sure they are chanting my name, but it’s lost as we start to jog out into the light.

  That’s the first thing I notice. It’s blinding out here. Back home the sun could get up, turn the soles of your shoes to glue against the court, but this is different, an artificial kind of light. It seems the perfect word to describe this entire place—artificial, not real.

  I start to stretch on court, looking around at the crowd. They call this place the Coop House, Can House… I can’t really remember, but it’s packed. There’s not a seat to spare.

  The jersey feels weird, my shoes too new and white. Remind yourself why you’re here. You’ve got this. You’ve got these punks.

  I need a ball in my hands. I signal to the sidelines and Coach throws one over. I toss a few easy jump shots up from inside the key, the whit! sound of the ball passing through the net music to my ears. I go wide for some threes, sinking four in succession with ease. My confidence builds.

  I look to the crowd again. It’s clear I’m the center of attention. With my ink and built frame, I stand out like a toddler in a titty bar. Fuck them. Fuck what they think. I’ll let my game do the talking.

  I’m collecting a rebound when I catch a glimpse of a girl courtside. She’s the epitome of a clean-cut college type with barely a hair out of order, but there’s something about her that stops me in my tracks. Maybe it’s the fact she’s so different from the Avril Lavigne lookalike beside her. Maybe it’s her bottle-green eyes, but there’s something there I know, something familiar.

  Coach is screaming at me from the sidelines. “Compton! Get your head out of your ass and do some drills!”

  I join the others just as the whistle blows.

  It’s on.

  I find my position and size up the opposition. They’re all inbreeds from what I can tell—easy prey.

  The siren goes and we take possession. Charleston’s the first to score—surprise, surprise—but I’ll be damned if he’s going to take this moment from me.

  I make an easy steal from one of the opposition point guards. Poor bastard shit his pants when he saw me standing over him. I burn down the court from the turnover, one of my teammates yapping on for the pass to the side, but no, this is my highlight reel.

  I charge up the center hard and run the ball off the backboard for an easy deuce. The crowd goes nuts, and you know what? It feels good—really fucking good.

  I make two blocks, dump a three… easy points, really, Charleston whining at me to “Share the love, hey?” I give him the bird. “Share this.”

  I take possession again. The others are open. There’s a lot of traffic in the key, but that’s not about to stop me. I pull out a bit of flair, filter through for the release, but the opposition center is all up in my face. He brings a knee into my chest mid-air, the ball sailing away. I fall hard, instantly snapping up. �
�What. The. Fuck?!”

  The ref whistle’s goes. It takes me a second to register the foul is on me. A fucking charging foul?

  I throw my hands up. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  I catch sight of Familiar Girl again. She’s watching me with such intensity I can practically feel her eyes burning their way through my body. But she’s looking at me with what—fear, admiration… lust?

  The center downs the foul and we’re toe to toe again, but I’m not going to let him get off so easy. The next time he charges I make sure I’m there. With a simple shift left I’m right in his path. He goes slamming into me, just completely flattened. “You like that?” I tell him, casting his prone body into shadow. I could crush him right now, but Tyson pulls me away. “Easy, big guy.”

  Coach calls time out, tells me to share the ball, use the team, but I switch off. I’ll win the game myself if I have to.

  The third quarter goes exactly the same as the first and second. I get aggressive, get right up into their faces and make them work for every point. I even manage to swing a dunk, the crowd exploding and Coach doing the same, though not with joy.

  We’re five points up, but I know as well as anyone how fast fortunes can change in this game.

  It all feels good—the boards under my feet, the ball in my hand, the sweat and smell of popcorn in the air. This is where I belong. This is where I’m free.

  Charleston actually passes my way when he hits a wall of opposition defense. It’s the wrong move. I’ve got heat of my own—too much. I look for the easy out, seeing our point guard open down the far lane. He doesn’t look he’s paying attention, but it’s too late for that. With two hands I send the ball out hard and fast, but he’s too busy eyeballing cheerleaders instead of the game.

  As soon as the ball leaves my hand, as soon as I see where it’s headed, I know exactly what’s going happen. What I don’t expect is the way her head snaps back, the force at which I’ve propelled the ball at her.

  The medics take her away and I hit the bench. We win, but I barely notice. I shouldn’t care, she wasn’t paying attention, but I can’t get her out of my head. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. All I know is I’ve got to find out more about her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LUCY

  “You’re famous, you know.”

  Dad pulls out his phone. “You’ve seen the video, right? Three-million views and counting.”

  I push the phone away, looking around to make sure no one is witnessing this high humiliation. “No, I have not seen the video, nor do I want to. My head hurts just thinking about it. Shouldn’t you be all ‘that’s terrible’ and ‘don’t people have better things to do’?”

  We’re at a coffee shop in the middle of campus. I’ve already been the subject of one selfie today, forever now to be known as That Girl Who Got Knocked Out by the Basketball. “It’s been a week. You think people would get over it, move onto a bagpipe-playing poodle or something.”

  Dad’s smirking, clearly more amused than concerned by the whole thing. “You went down like a bag of potatoes, honey.”

  I cross my arms. “Thanks. I’ve still got the panda eyes to show for it. Can we change the subject?”

  Dad puts his phone down next to his espresso. “Sure. What would you like to talk about?”

  “I don’t know. Anything exciting happening?”

  “Apart from your run in with a spherical leather globe? No, not really, though I was impressed by the new recruit.”

  “The guy who hit me in the head, Nate Compton?”

  “The one and only. Not bad, is he? They’re calling him ‘King Compton’.”

  I’ll bet.

  I think back to that night, to the inked-up biker boy that seemed so at odds with everyone else. “He’s not exactly a team player.”

  “He scored forty points. Doesn’t have to be.”

  “I thought Manning was all about promoting sportsmanship, being part of ‘something bigger’.”

  “Manning hasn’t won a title in ten years, Lucy. We need Nate Compton.”

  “Sports scholarship. What a joke. Where did you even find him? San Quentin?”

  Dad shrugs. “It is what it is.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “I sure hope so. You are the Dean, after all.”

  *

  I bump into Amber on the way to class. She separates herself from a pack of similarly clothed individuals and bumps into my side. “Lunch with Daddy again?”

  “He likes to check up on me.”

  “I’ll bet. Couldn’t have you tarnishing the name of this good institution by getting drunk and being part of a locker-room gangbang now, could we?”

  “No.”

  “To the gangbang or tarnishing the university’s name?”

  “Both.”

  “All this goody-goody bible business makes me sick, you know. All this newfound fame and you’re hiding away in the library. It’s not right.”

  “Famous for all the wrong reasons.”

  Something collides with my chest, the coffee I was holding turning my shirt an insta-shade of how embarrassing.

  A football spins on the ground. I look up and there is the man of the minute, Nate ‘King’ Compton, shirt off and sweaty.

  He bounds over. I stand there waiting for him to say sorry, but he simply swoops down and collects the ball. “You should really pay more attention.”

  Man, that body is distracting, but the arrogance. He starts to walk back to his friends, but I’m not about to take this lying down.

  “Hey!”

  He turns. “Got something to say, Cinderella?”

  Cinderella? How dare… I take a step forward, step right into his shadow and suddenly feel about a foot tall. “What, you’re not even going to apologize? That’s the second time you’ve taken me out with your butter hands. Least you could do is say sorry.”

  He holds the ball up with one hand, examining the seam. “I don’t do sorry.”

  I shove him in the chest. He may as well be a fire hydrant. “Well, what do you do? I’ll follow you all the way around campus if I have to.”

  He smiles. “Be my guest… Sorry, didn’t catch your name.”

  “Lucy.”

  “Well, Lucy, follow me if you want, but it’s a long line, and frankly, you’re not my type.”

  “Intelligent, you mean?”

  “No, short.”

  He turns and Amber actually has to physically restrain me.

  “We’re not done!” I scream, people on the village green popping up at the ruckus.

  He casts the ball to his friends, starting a slow jog to their position.

  I’m seething. Never, ever have I been spoken to like that, with such disregard, such disrespect. “What a-”

  “Prick?” Amber offers.

  “I was going to with son of a bucket, but yeah, yours works. Clearly some village is being deprived of their idiot today.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he likes you. At least he hasn’t said anything about running you over yet. In fact, yeah, I’m going to say he’s dying to get into those cut-price pants of yours.”

  I smile, my head saying ‘hell no’ but my body responding otherwise. “I’d agree with you, but then we’d both be wrong.”

  *

  I barely hear a word the lecturer is saying during Ethics. I’m still thinking about this Nate character. Every time I do, I flare up inside thinking about his perfectly proportioned body, the way he smelt of cinnamon and sunshine. And those aquamarine eyes? Six and two is eight they’re gorgeous. I’m used to people acting with respect, with compassion, but him? He’s a blunt instrument. You can’t fix that.

  There’s an odd pang in my core, a more primal register, but I push it away. Never in a million years.

  Amber won’t let it drop back at the house. We’ve got the den all to ourselves, Judge Judy laying down the law to a guy who looks like Sideshow Bob on
TV.

  Amber sits back and pops an M&M into her mouth, lips green today. “I bet he threw that ball at you deliberately.”

  I pull my legs to my chest. “Which one?”

  “Probably just trying to give you a hint.”

  “A hint? We’re not in junior high here. You can ask someone to grab a coffee. You don’t have to give them concussion.”

  “Guys are weird, all negging and that.”

  “Negging?”

  “You know, they insult you to undermine your self-confidence, make you vulnerable to their advances.”

  “He doesn’t seem coordinated enough for such a tactic.”

  “Who said you need a guy with a brain?”

  “For what?”

  Amber rolls her eyes. “For playing bridge with.”

  “Bridge?”

  “For fucking!” she bellows.

  I pop my head up to make sure none of the other sisters are around. “Not so loud.”

  “Tell me you don’t want a piece of that, just pounded into bliss by his big c-”

  “Amber!”

  She sits back with sudden realization. “Oh.”

  “Oh, what?”

  She points a chocolaty finger of accusation at me. I notice her nails are different shades of black. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

  “I am-”

  I should lie, but I can’t.

  She’s reading me like a book. “You are. My god, an actual, true-blood virgin.”

  “Sounds like you’re going to sacrifice me.”

  “To the first hot guy that comes our way, yes.”

  I hold up my hand, show her my ring.

  She takes my finger. “And what the fuck is this? It better not be what I think it is.”

  “It’s a purity ring. My father gave it to me.”

  Amber actually leaps from the sofa and does a dance in front of Judge Judy—either a dance or a seizure. I really can’t tell. “Get the fuck out.”

  “Seriously. I mean, I know it’s a bit weird. It’s pretty, though.”

  “And you really believe in that nonsense? Whatever happened to ‘try before you buy’?”

  I used to believe. I used to do whatever it took to keep Dad happy, but being here at campus I’m not so sure. I want to live a little, open myself up to new experiences, perhaps even that. “I guess I’m waiting, yes.”