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Wild

I live for these moments.

The buzz of the anxious, warring fans recedes. I don't feel the ball in my hands. But when it leaves my hand, flying above the defender's reach, I know it's going in.

My favorite moment is the tiniest fraction of a second before the ball swishes through the net. Time slows. Nobody is moving. Not the players, the fans, or the ref. We are all waiting, breathing suspended, watching the ball.

It goes in .

If the noise was shocking before, it crashes like thunder now.

My teammates don't swamp me. They are all smiles but it's grudging. Reluctant.

I get the post-game interview, but it's the same dry, perfunctory affair.

It's a good thing sports reporters always ask the same questions.

How do you feel about hitting the game winner?

Did you know it was going to go in?

What adjustments did the coach make to create the opportunity?

But this time, there's another question I don't see coming.

Will you stay in Philly?

My eyes flit over the bursts of color and noise that are the club fans. An icy shiver dances over the pool of sweat on my body.

My head races for an answer, any kind of joking sound bite, to get through what's becoming an increasingly awkward moment. That's when I see it.

A banner put up by the fans.

WE DON'T NEED YOU, WILDMAN.

"Wilder?" The reporter pushes the microphone forward until it brushes my lips.

Swallowing my irritation and the burn of seeing that banner after hitting a game winner, I mutter, "We will see."

As we lope towards the locker room, I joke with my teammates about what we got right.

They laugh. We exchange back slaps.

My skittering pulse comes down to normal. We are good.

But when I leave the showers minutes later, it's to an empty locker room. They went for post-game drinks without me.

It's nothing.I’m the problem. When I first joined the team, they were friendly and welcoming, but after years of flitting from team to team, I might have perfected the art of keeping my distance a little too well.

Better not to forge connections when you’re the new, temporary guy.

My eyes are on my phone as I leave the locker room and head to the hall. It's for two reasons.

First, I'm avoiding the fans and media and errant cameras. I don't want to appear on Sports Center for any reason other than my game-winning highlights.

Two, I'm lonely.

I don't have friends here. And whose fault is that?

"Uncle Wild!"

My head jerks up, and I barely have enough time to tuck away my phone before my niece, Diana, with long black hair flying behind her, throws her body at me.

Her father, my immediate older brother, Jaxon Carrington, is right behind her, a hoodie and a ball cap pulled low on his head to hide the burn scar on the right side.

"Sweet Pea," I growl in a way sure to make Diana laugh.

She does, winging her arms around my neck. I inhale the smell of vanilla and innocence, and for the first time in months, I feel good.

"What are you doing here?" I ask her.

She taps my shoulder so I can put her down. I swallow my disappointment even as I long for the days when she begged and bribed me for shoulder rides.

Does the Time Lord take one-time requests? Because I want the sweet, less serious Diana of just two years ago. This seven-year-old version is less fun.

But I'm still her favorite uncle.

"We are going to a book signing twenty minutes from here, and Dad suggested we stop for your game," she says.

I shoot Jax a look, and he shakes his head at his daughter in exasperation. Jax isn't the type to hole up in a plane for hours just because of a basketball game.

But he will do anything for Diana.

“Did Ro call you?” he asks.

“She’s coming down to see our physio for a second opinion.” We go quiet, thinking of our little sister going down with an injury.

"Is it always like this?" Jax waves toward the court when Diana leaves us to check out life-sized player posters.

And no, I don't have a poster here.

"Like how?"

"Hostile,"Jax says in a tone that dares me to contradict him.

"It's not so bad."

"Not so bad? They don't like you even if you're their best player."

And because Jax isn't the type to give advice--that's more our oldest brother, Rhys’s speed--he shrugs. "I hope it's worth it."

"It is." He means basketball. Is basketball worth the sacrifices I ’ ve had to make? YES.

He shifts his head to the posters and gives me a pointed stare. "When it stops being worth it, remember you're Dee's favorite and come home,"he says gruffly.

Home. I miss my parents, my siblings, and Charity. Nothing here can compare to the small-town values, sense of community, and beauty of my tiny mountain town.

Jax calls Dee over, and we say our goodbyes.

As I head for the parking lot, I try not to think about my empty living room, but it's hard.

I hear running feet, and a boy of about eight appears with an older man on his heels.

"Mr. Carrington?"

I'm Wild to Evie, Wilder to my family and friends, and Wildman to teammates and fans. No one calls me Mr. Carrington.

The boy reaches me and holds out my North Cats jersey.

Nostalgia envelopes me at the unexpected sight of those familiar blue colors.

"Would you sign it, please?"

"Sorry."His father places his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "He's a huuuuge fan."

"Yeah?"I smile at the boy.

He nods. "We should take a picture if you want. I never miss your games. I can't believe you hit the game winner, and I got to watch it live."

"Do you play?"I ask him.

His head drops, and he shakes his head. "They said I'm too short."

I meet his father's eyes. He nods in confirmation. Back to his son, I drop down to my haunches not to loom over him.

"You know who else was too short?"

And his eyes light up. "Stephen Curry?"

I hold out my fist for a fist bump. "You know basketball. You know what else?"

"What?"

"Play for yourself. Enjoy it. You don't have to go pro to enjoy playing it. Some pro players don't even enjoy it."

We take pictures, I sign his jersey, and the boy's acting like I gave him a slice of heaven.

Between him and my niece, Diana, I feel better than good.

I'm in the shower, hands braced against the wall, water hitting the middle of my back, when my phone starts ringing.I can guess who it is.

In record time, I'm out and dressed and hitting call on Evie's name.

"How did the dinner go?"I ask.

"Hello to you, too."

"You should have waited for Charlie," I scold. The Langfords quench 'fires' with private family dinners where they sit and smile and pretend to tolerate each other.

My best friend, Charlie will rather strip than sit down to dinner with his father and stepmom but I can get him to do it for Evie.

But I’m not hundred percent sure he loves his younger sister enough to share a meal with their stepmother, Mrs. Langford.

"I watched the game. Are you alright?"

Which means she saw the 'we don't need you'banner. Ugly emotions fill my chest. "You should be getting enough sleep, not staying up to watch basketball games."

And because she's Evie, she doesn't get angry as she should.

"Wild."

"You shouldn't be going to dinner with people who don't deserve to know you."

"Wild--"

"And next time, you have to obey one of Mrs. Langford's summons, call me or wait for--"

"And you should have the club stand up for you or give a statement about the behavior of the fans.”

"You're not listening,"I say because she doesn't listen. Not where her stepmother, Mrs. Langford is concerned.

"And are you going to listen to me?"she shoots back. “We do the things we shouldn’t. That’s human.”

I sigh. "We shouldn't fight."

She goes quiet. "We're not fighting.”

“ Raised, sharp voices sound like a fight to me."

“ Not according to the official definition."

"What are we doing then?"

"Having a heated conversation,"she says.

I tip my head against the couch and smile. "A heated conversation, huh?"

"Yep."

The ugly fades away. I stretch my legs out. "Tell me about your kids.” Evie is a preschool teacher with dual degrees in early childhood education and she's great at her job. She's great at it because she really loves children.

“You need to do your post-game dissection and rest.”

“After you tell me about work.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. So, we finally have a male teacher…”

◆◆◆

Over breakfast with the potted plant Evie got me, I make my decision.

I, Wilder Carrington, want to leave Philly.

"Again?" my mom, Carla, asks. Then she sighs. "I suppose I should be happy you lasted two years. Have you had breakfast?"

Her question brings a smile to my face. I love her. She's my aunt, but since my biological mother, her sister, left when I was twelve, she's been a mom to me and my brothers. When Will and Carla stopped dancing around their feelings and married, our ranch foreman, Will, became our dad. Together, they created a haven for me, my brothers, and cousins/sisters—Mom's two daughters from a previous marriage.

"Dad must be disappointed."

And you, too .

And Coach Billy, my first-year coach and role model. I can't disappoint him any more than I already have.

"He's not. He's just waiting to get a ticket to your first game with your new team."

Ouch. But I get it. No one's more supportive than Dad.

"Have you told your brothers and sisters?"

"No, ma."

I can’t do anything about the need to move when it hits me. It’s the connection with the fans and teammates I fear, the commitment of being responsible for their expectations. Yeah, yeah, I know I’m a walking contradiction.

“Ro is still coming to your physiotherapist for a second opinion?” Mom asks, worry threading through her voice.

“Yes.”

My little sister is a professional footballer and is recovering from an ACL strain. Lucky for her, the injury to her anterior cruciate ligament is just a strain, but Ro has been freaking out because it’s a common injury in women’s football. And she will be out for a good four weeks—an eternity if you add the difficulty of returning to her previous blistering form after just getting into the first team.

She lets out a breath. “Please take very good care of her—or I can come—”

“You can trust me, Mom. I will look out for her.”

Being a mother to two professional athletes isn’t a piece of cake. My parents watch every game and worry and obsess over every contact.

Ro’s injury was a noncontact one. She was running and went down without anyone touching her.

“She will be fine, Mom. Don’t worry.”

Dad comes on the line. “In just three weeks, she will be back scoring goals.”

“Yes, sir.”

“See?” He tells Mom, “stop worrying.”

After the call, I head out to the team's training facility. Just before I go in, I stop for a shot of black coffee. The barista, who I know well for her 'over-familiarity'with all my teammates, is all flirty smiles and fluttering eyelashes. Her usually award-winning performance is wasted on me. All I can think about is disappointing my parents. Evie. Coach Billy.

I played my best basketball during my rookie year at just nineteen. Everything fell into place: good teammates, Coach Billy, and an injury-free year.

It was all good until the fans who professed to love me turned on me. Spectacularly.

Everything changed.

The result is my inability to last two full seasons with a team.

It ’ s not all bad. I have a great team in my agent and PR manager, so my off-field activities haven't affected my bank account. Much.

"Oh,"the barista says in a tone that makes her sound like a stuttering fan. "I think I gave you the wrong order."

My mind slowly switches from wondering what a stuttering fan looks and sounds like to my coffee. I bring the cup to my lips and grimace. "Ah."

Twirling a finger through her hair, she giggles. "I know, right? Can I take a photo?"

I can bet my next paycheck she will be selling the picture to any major news outlet in the next second. "Sorry, I'm really not in the mood. Maybe later?"

Abruptly, she drops her hand from her hair and straightens, scowling. "And your coffee?"

I take a teeth-rotting sip of the liquefied sugar. "All good."

A niggle in the back of my throat, which I refuse to call superstitious, takes me to the general manager's office. I have my fist raised a few centimeters away from the door when I hear my name, then Richard, my agent, and Lila's voices. Lila is my PR manager.

All my senses immediately swing into a magical ultra mode. I hear, “ Trade” and squish my ears against the door, wishing I had superpowers.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk."

The sound is coming from my left. Only my eyes move as I seek out the new intrusion. I spot Ro. In a green cocktail dress and white sneakers, my sister looks like she’s out on a hot date, not an appointment with a physio. The wild, brown hair she got from our mother has been ironed into a sleek bun.

I press my forefinger to my lips in warning. But does Ro listen? No.

"You know what they say about eavesdroppers.”

“What did the physio say?”

“Three weeks,” she says shortly.

She’s hurting, and I don’t know how to comfort her. As a fellow professional, there’s nothing to say except to take each day as it comes.

But Ro isn’t a fellow professional. She’s my sister.

“Look on the bright side. It’s three weeks, not three months.”

She looks away, pushing her hand through her hair. “Yeah. I guess.”

I’m not getting through to her. And I understand her frustration, having worked so hard to get into the first team.

“Should I call Sisi?” With her blunt, take-no-prisoner style, I'm hoping our sister will jerk Ro out of this mood.

“You may want to remove your ear from the door first,” Ro says.

The door opens, and my agent Richard comes stomping out with all the rage of a fire-breathing dragon. I stay out of his way.

Lila somehow looks subdued with her bright pink hair and witchy long nails. Even if she's in her late sixties, I'm used to vibrant, larger-than-life Lila, not this version.

I cautiously approach my PR manager because of the dreaded t-word I just overheard. "Are they trading me?"

Lila's unamused. "If you're going to eavesdrop, do it properly. Start from the beginning and wait to the end to get the full gist."

“What is the end gist?” I ask.

Lila’s eyes shoot daggers at me. “You know Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin and their famous conscious uncoupling?"

"You know I'm more an epic fantasy kind of guy."

She spots Ro. “How’s the leg?"

“Great,” she says.

I try to read Ro and how she’s feeling about it, but I can’t get through. And closed off isn’t Ro’s style.

“Do me a favor and keep this one out of trouble,"Lila orders Ro.

And Lila doesn't just order. She's a money-making drill sergeant. If she says jump, ask, how high?

“You hear me,"she asks when Ro doesn’t respond.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wait," I cut in, trying to assert some control over my life, "Lila—"

"Like a wise girlfriend, Philly decided to make a power move and dump you before you dump them. You're traded, kid."