Kicking sand into a black girl's fresh braids probably wasn't the best way to make friends for six-year-old Marshall Stone. In fact, that's how he found a rival.
Love Lewis has always disliked the boy that had her mother on a rampage when she came h...
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I feel like I haven't been on a court in weeks but I was on one yesterday, running suicides in preparation for today's game.
It's an away game, though I was on this campus just days ago, at a party, but here nonetheless.
Lake View's campus is smaller than North Atlantic's by a conservatory and greenhouse for Astrology and Agriculture majors but it's still a nice campus. The grass is always freshly cut and they have a multitude of restaurants that accept student dollars — I know this courtesy of Caleb.
Getting off the bus, we're ushered to an extra locker room their stadium keeps for the away team. As I remove my suit and tie that we're required to wear, the sound of my team chattering fades into the background as my phone buzzes with a text.
My heart sinks.
Dad I caught a flight in to watch your first away game. Let's have dinner after.
I fight the urge to throw my phone. We haven't directly spoken to each other in a week and a half, yet he thinks now is the perfect time to? Of course, he wants to relay a false narrative that he's here to support his son, the team captain.
It's sickening but I can't do anything about it. He still finds most of my life and usually, he doesn't ask. He demands in a less conspicuous so as not to raise any suspicions that he's more of a controlling asshole than he lets on.
A slap on the shoulder is all I need to get back to where I am — in a locker room where my teammates are waiting for me to make some big announcement, count off some pep talk that ensures we win the game.
The person who garnered my attention is Keenan James, a man so thin, I'm shocked he doesn't blow away in the wind. He's our shooting guard and good at it too.
I glance behind him, catching sight of Coach Greg talking to a familiar face. Enough research — and the logo on his quarter zip — has taught me that that's the recruiting director for the Boston Celtics. His eyes scan the bustling locker room but I don't focus too much on that, I turn my attention to Keenan.
"You good?" He asks, his voice not matching his body. It's deep, deeper than mine.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
Many reasons apparently. I tuck my phone into my duffel bag and grab my uniform.
He shrugs, "No reason. Just checking on you." When he walks away, I can't help but stare at him in confusion. That wasn't weird at all.
Parker approaches, already dressed and squeezing water into his mouth from a Gatorade bottle. He plops himself down on the bench beside me.
"What's up with you?"
I spare him a glance, "What do you mean what's up with me? Why do you think there'd be something wrong with me?"
His eyes widen, "Woah. There's definitely something wrong with you."
