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TWO

ELI

I wake up in a cold sweat.

It’s that goddamn dream again, the one I’m convinced is my subconscious coming through to haunt the hell out of me. I never remember the details, only the whisper of Ma’s voice and the look on my baby sister’s face the last time I saw her. Which was at Ma’s funeral, after she died in a car crash, three years ago.

Shaking off the nightmare, I peek at my clock.

Three thirty in the morning.

Not exactly what I had in mind as the “good night’s rest” before my first day at my new job.

I know sleep is a lost cause, so I grab my phone off the nightstand and trudge past the white walls of my house, making my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Glancing down at my phone, I read through the missed texts from earlier tonight.

Connor:

You in Florida yet? I need my wingman! This weekend, we’re going out. Pretty up that face, so I can use those blue eyes and golden hair of yours to get laid.

Smirking, a bit of amusement filters through the unease my nightmares left behind. Connor’s messages always make me smile. We played college ball together in Ohio, and he was the only one there for me through Ma’s death, and then again when my dream of playing pro ball slipped through my fingers. It’s lucky my new job as the assistant coach to the Florida Coast Stingrays coincides with his contract with the Florida Suns. Even though it stings knowing he’s out there being the best shooting guard in the NBA and I’m here living out my backup plan.

I’d be the best point guard if fate weren’t such a fickle bitch.

I bat away the thought before it can take root and wrap itself around me. I try not to think about the harsh things in life—learned at a young age that it’s easier to push it back and focus on the here and now. Exiting out of Connor’s text, I pull up the one from my baby sister, Lee.

Sis:

You gonna make it home for Daddy’s birthday this year?

Grimacing, I close the window, tossing my phone aside, something sour settling in my gut. I wish she’d stop sending me messages like this when she already knows the answer. They don’t really need me there, anyway.

I doubt Pops is in a celebratory mood. He never is these days, and to be honest, I don’t know what to do with this new version of him. My entire life, he’s always been the one at my back, pushing me to go harder, dig deeper, succeed better . Hell, he’s half the reason I wanted to get out of Sugarlake in the first place. I love Pops, but the pressure he mounted on my back had me struggling for breath every day.

But I’d take that version over what he is now—a ghost of who he once was.

After losing Ma, he changed.

I won’t lie; at first I thought it was a good thing. I’d been aching my entire life to get some space from his overbearing parenting—coaching, if we’re being technical. But with the absence of him breathing down my neck, there was only loneliness left behind, and I’ve never really figured out how to adjust to the change.

When I went number one in the NBA draft, there was no one there to celebrate.

When I tore my ACL two months into my rookie contract with New York, no one came to my bedside.

Not my Pops.

Not my sister.

No one.

So forgive me for not wanting to rush back to a home that harbors nothing but memories of Ma—who I didn’t spend enough time with—and the family who forgot to include me in the aftermath.

But it’s just like Lee to guilt-trip me. Growing up, she didn’t appreciate how different our folks were with her. She wasn’t pushed to her breaking point. Never forced to give up any semblance of a normal life to be the best. She has no idea what it feels like to have an entire town tout you as their superstar before you’ve even made it through high school. No clue how the shame threatens to swallow me whole anytime I think about showing my face there now that I’m not able to play. The gash is barely healed in my heart; I’m not sure I’d survive having three thousand folks pouring salt in the wound.

I’ll make something of myself here in Florida, though. I may not be on the court anymore, but I’ll work my way through the ranks, make a different kind of name for myself. Maybe then, the thought of facing my hometown won’t make me feel like I’m drowning.

Heading to the couch, I flip on the TV, hoping I’ll be able to fall back asleep and trying to ignore the way the halls of my new house mock me with their emptiness.

A couple of hours and a gallon of coffee later, I make my way to the shower. I don’t think there’s enough caffeine in the world to make me feel ready for the day, but luckily, the jitters in my gut make up for my brain’s lack of enthusiasm. Besides, I doubt today will be anything too intense. Preseason isn’t for a month, and the NCAA is strict on how many practices you’re allowed before the season starts. It’s not time to meet with the players, and I already know Coach Andrews. He’s the reason I got the job in the first place. It was barely an interview, to be honest. Andrews sang my praises. Told me how lucky he’d feel to have me on his staff after he followed my college career.

I’m flattered, of course, but I don’t feel the greatness seeping out of me the way he seems to think it does. I just feel like a missed opportunity. A seed that was watered to a bud, then left in the sun to fend for itself.

But even though I wasn’t meant for the spotlight, some of these players will be, and I’ll do everything in my power to help them blossom into the best damn ballers they can be.

If I can’t live out my dream, the least I can do is help them live out theirs.