Boot(s)

7-Boots

Peter "Boots" Jackson

"Fuck."

The Knicks were winning, but just barely. The Warriors had just scored again; they had a good team this year. They had come out of fucking nowhere, too. I could see the surprise on Bobby's face. One of the cameramen had a particular affinity for capturing Bo's many facial expressions. I blessed the day he got hired. The only way I could ever see Bo's face was by watching his games, and this cameraman filmed Bo like he was on an episode of Desperate Housewives. I loved every second.

A triple knock on my door told me my old roommate and best friend Jack was entering. I ignored him, pulling the laptop on my lap closer to my chest.

"Hey," he said. I could see him standing in my doorway out of the corner of my eye, but again, the Knicks were just barely winning. There were only two minutes left and these two minutes were crucial. I snorted my acknowledgment of his presence. "Whatcha watching?"

Bobby had the ball at the arc on the left side. I had watched him nail this shot six times already. I had only been able to scramble to my laptop and turn on the game at half time, but still. He was cranking 'em.

Jack shuffled closer to where I was sitting on my bunk. "Hey Boooties, I'm talking to you."

"Basketball," I snapped. I hated that stupid nickname. "Now kindly fuck off. Two minutes left. Knicks up by four."

Jack burst out laughing. I didn't look up from my computer, but I grew defensive. "What's so god damned funny?"

"Jesus, man, you're so focused, so enthralled. Thought it was a porno or something."

I resisted the urge to swing my leg out from the bed and karate chop him in the nuts, settling for a deep exhale I hoped would keep my blood from boiling and my face from growing pink.

"I like the Knicks," I muttered. "Sue me."

"Got family in New York? Why do you root for the Knicks?"

I wanted to pin his lips together because Bobby had made that three and the camera was following him back to the other side of the court and his left dimple was showing as he smiled and his stupid hot chocolate eyes were smiling just as much. But instead, I did the civilized thing and I answered him.

"Don't got family." He knew this. I don't know why he was asking me. The ignorance was making my eyes roll.

"So. Why do you like the Knicks?"

This time, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. "God, Jacko, my best friend from growing up plays for the Knicks. That enough of an explanation?"

"No kidding," he pulled a chair from the wooden desk in the corner of the room and slid it over next to my bed. "Let me see." A bit reluctantly, I turned the computer. I hadn't told anyone about Bobby being in the NBA. I actually hadn't told anyone about Bobby, ever. "Which one is he?"

My finger smudged the corner of the screen. "Tall, lanky, brown wavy hair. Number 13. Looks kinda like a goon, but damn, he can play."

"No shit. That's Bobby O'Callahan."

Surprised, I looked up at Jack for the first time since he had barged into my room. "You know Bobby?"

"Yeah, of course. He's one of the best rookies in the game. Of course I know Bobby."

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something stupid like, no, you don't, you don't know him at all. I know Bobby. I know how he likes his eggs, I know how much he loves his Pop, and I know that he's killer at calculus, hates black coffee and loves American Idol, even though it really is horrible television.

But I hadn't talked to Bo in six years. These days, I didn't know him any more than Jacko did.

"Woah," Jack leaned closer to the screen. The cameraman who liked to capture Bobby's facial expressions was at it again. This time Bo was setting up for a foul shot. Beads of sweat dripped down the side of his face. He looked tan. You could see the freckles on his neck that looked like a smiley face if you squinted and closed one eye, like I did sometimes. Used to. "He's handsome."

My body's response was a snort that was much too loud for the setting we were in. I swallowed and muttered the first thing that popped into my much too crowded head. "He's had that haircut since high school."

"Dang."

"Hmhm."

The camera panned out, and Bobby drained both shots. Knicks won by six. As the buzzer signaled the end of the game, Jack got up from his chair. My eyes didn't leave the computer screen.

"We got a few minutes before training," Jack said. "Want to go grab a cigarette?"

I shook my head. "Sometimes they interview Bo after the games. Gonna wait and see."

Jack let out a long, low whistle. "Man. You're dedicated."

I cleared my throat. "Not really."

Not really. Not at all.