Page 31 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Grant

Sneakers screech across the waxy court in a repetitive pattern as we run superman drills at opposite ends of the court.

Jumping up, I easily sink the ball in the basket and shuffle to grab it back, shooting it to Ben.

Coach’s whistle cuts us off, the rhythm of screeches suddenly replaced by our uneven huffs as we all steady our breaths from where we stand, scattered across the court.

Everyone except Will, whose absence is glaringly obvious. Especially with Ben here.

“Showers,” Coach barks, still stewing over the scene at “his” gala. That’s what he called it when he berated us this morning in the locker room, seeming to become even more enraged when one half of the scene didn’t even dare to show up.

I expect Ben to have disappeared by the time I emerge from my shower stall, the steam reminiscent of wood smoke from all the heavily scented body wash that just sluiced down the drains, but he’s only just trying to make his escape. He spots me and, to my utter surprise, retreats .

“You got a minute?” he asks. He seems unsure, like he thinks I could say no, like he’s aware that he’s been a shit friend. But I, the good friend —I always have a minute.

I contemplate saying no. “Sure.”

When we emerge from the gym, the late afternoon glare of the sun hazardous to our eyes, it almost feels like the old days. The heat that beats against my face is tempered by the cool air we wade through, weaving through the disparate clusters of students.

“You talk to Liv?” I just come out with it because he’s mentioned just about everything else the entirety of the journey thus far.

His scoff shocks me. “No,” is all he says. There’s a pregnant pause, like surely he’s going to elaborate. But nope—nothing.

“I can’t tell if you want to talk about it or not,” I say, my laugh sardonic and impatient.

He throws his head back with a groan, his hands raking down his face.

“I don’t,” he decides, then flashes me a disingenuous smile. “It’s done. Let’s talk about you.”

“Wow. You pay your therapist to learn that one?” I’m too amused to push any further as he laughs. A small piece of our friendship unfurls at his offer, reminding me how nice it is to have a best friend. Someone you can talk to about everything.

Almost everything . At least my secrets aren’t hurting anyone.

Ben doesn’t know about the foster thing, but it never made sense to bring up.

No one knows… except Gen. And he doesn’t know about her, even though it contradicts every feeling I’ve had since the other night to act like I’m the same guy I was a few weeks ago.

“Seriously, what’s new? I see you at practice and that’s it. It was different when we were rooming together. Remember that apartment?” His faraway gaze and nostalgic smile have me seeing it, too.

“An apartment is generous. Maybe a dumping ground?”

“It was the other guys who kept getting it so messy! We were good.”

“Our housekeeper was good,” I remind him, entertained by the way he paints himself in memory.

“Yeah, whatever,” he chucks, sighing. “You ready to be done with all of this?”

“College? Yeah,” I admit. “But I uh…” I pause, scrubbing my jaw with my hand as I hesitate. Ben’s been on the draft radar since before he left. Coming back was a formality. I feel small telling him my intentions, despite our similar statures. “I’m not ready to be done with basketball.”

He gives me a thoughtful, curious look. “You want to stay another year?”

And there it is. Isn’t that what I’ve been afraid of? Isn’t that part of why I haven’t entertained the thought out loud? But I’m halfway there, so I might as well. “No. I’m gonna go for the draft.” My face feels stony as I say it, like I’m bracing for a laugh.

His eyes go wide, he stops walking, and I cringe.

“Fuck. Yes.” Each word is punctuated and intense as he almost leaps up, smacking me on the back, and the air that leaves me morphs into a surprised laugh. “Fuck yes, Grant. Since when?”

He’s excited. And it’s genuine. And I wonder how many other people I’m selling short with the narrative I have going. “Really since the summer.”

He’s shaking his head, shit eating grin on his face. “I can’t believe it.”

Now I scoff. “Why not? ”

“I think I remember you saying professional ball players are short-sighted idiots .” He gives me a pointed glare, one brow shooting up.

I don’t remember saying that. I remember hearing it from my dad, though. Many times, over and over again. I’m speechless, because what a shitty thing to say, especially to someone who’s planning to do the exact thing you’re minimizing.

“Shit. I’m sorry… I actually don’t.”

Ben’s face resumes its former amusement—no harm, no foul.

“You didn’t offend me. Sounded more like something you heard than something you believed.”

“Because it was.” My smile morphs into a grimace, feeling like a fool.

He just shrugs. “You were so damn good—are so good—but you were just committed to it being over in four years. I’m just glad you finally woke the fuck up.” He whacks my back again, and I have to roll a shoulder back to counteract the sting.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Huh?”

“Why didn’t you like… say all of that. Why’d you let me act like that?”

Now his face contorts, twists like I’ve offended him. “Uh… I know you haven’t talked to you , but no one ‘lets’ you do anything. You just do what you’re gonna do. There’s no convincing you when you think you’re right.”

Face stinging in tandem with my back, I swallow against the criticism. “Fair enough.”

“I’m ‘too in my head,’ and you’re never wrong. I can recommend you a therapist,” he says, knocking my arm with his elbow, a truce of sorts. His perspective still chafes, but the fact that he even offered it feels like a move in the right direction.

“I’ll let you know.” I glance up toward my apartment, catching what I think is a brown head of hair in my window. I check the lot—sure enough, her car is here. “Catch you later?”

“Scott’s having guys over for 2K tomorrow,” he says in a thinly veiled invitation.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. But yeah, maybe stop by.”

He smiles, like he’s glad, and heads towards the other way.

When I open the door to my apartment, I’m assaulted by the smell of burnt cake.

Gen stands next to my sister, a panicked look on both their faces, as they stare at the charred sheet cake cooling on the rack.

Gen’s curls spring back as they pop their heads up, surprised to see me on the other side of the kitchen bar.

Without looking away, Sloane takes the rack and slides the cake into the trash can.

“Wait!” Gen begs, but Sloane’s already trashed it.

“There was nothing we could do,” my sister says in earnest, like a doctor announcing terrible news: a skillfully straight face, not even cracking a smile.

Gen on the other hand, doubles over, giddy and deliriously entertained.

When they finally come down from whatever inside joke high they’re on, they sigh in unison.

“Okay well…” Sloane twirls around the counter, snatching her fringed bag up off the table. “I’ll be back. I have an interview .” Her eyebrows bob up and down.

“What does that mean?” I ask, slightly worried. “Shouldn’t you change?”

“It’s very casual .” She shrugs, and I’m so fucking confused .

“Good-bye!” she sings as she lets the door fall shut.

“Please tell me she’s not joining a cult.” Gen’s grin lights up the space around us as she leans forward against the counter, resting her head on her hands.

“She met a guy. He owns an experimental gallery. That’s all you want to know.” I nod, actually grateful Sloane didn’t elaborate. “And Sloane would never join a cult. She would start one.”

My phone goes off in my pocket and I only need to glance to know it’s Connie again. I click the ringer off, setting it on the counter with an agitated sigh.

“Is that…?” Gen asks with this careful curiosity, like she’s still unsure how much I want to share about my life before I was adopted.

“Connie. Yeah.” I sink into one of my counter stools, letting my head drop into my hands before dragging them down my face, already exasperated. I haven’t even heard her voice, and there’s a steady stream of cortisol trickling into my bloodstream. “She’s been calling since August.”

“What does she want?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t answered.”

She nods, taking me in with sympathetic perceptiveness. “I could answer. Next time, I mean. If it’s…triggering, or something.”

A smile ghosts over my lips, my chest feeling heavy with something beyond lust or like, but I shake my head. “No, thank you—it’s okay. I don’t really want to know what she has to say. Is that wrong?” I ask her in earnest.

“I assume,” she starts, reaching across the counter to wrap her delicate hands around mine, “that you have your reasons. It’s not wrong to protect your heart, even if it’s from someone society says you should love or respect unconditionally. ”

“It just feels like too much has happened. It wasn’t just one thing—it was a thousand little blows that did it.

” Her gaze is steady, no sense or urgency in it—just patience and understanding—so I keep going.

“I think it started for me when Sloane and I got split up. That was…” I grind my molars, my throat bobbing. “That was hard.”

Gen’s eyes glisten as she presses her lips together. “How long?”

“Six months,” I tell her, the memory of that like a punch in the gut. “We were seven.”

“I’m so sorry, Grant.” She squeezes my hands, running her thumb across the top of mine, and I just shrug, breathing through the mental image of Sloane in the doorway of Social Services while this tiny pastor’s wife ushered me away. “And your uncle couldn’t have taken you in?”

“He was crossroad trucking, I think is what they told us. Or it was just inconvenient for him.”

“Shit. That’s…” she searches for a word to describe just one of the many consequences of Connie inaction in our lives. “Terrifying, for a kid.”