Page 2 of Playing to Win
Callie rolled her eyes. “I don’t have anything against the man. I just have many things against basketball playing men in general. I like to watch them play, don’t get me wrong. But that’s all I like.”
“I forgot that loser, Matt.”
“You told me you would never say his name in my presence again.”
“Ouch. Sorry. I forgot about he who shall never be named.”
“An evil jerk in a basketball jersey.” Callie frowned. “Which is why I will never, ever, ever date an athlete, especially a basketball player, ever again.”
“He burned you big time, sister.”
“You could say that again.”
“He really burned you big time, sister.” Aria grinned devilishly just as the last buzzer sounded. The Thunder had won by a sound thirty points. “And you should never say never, daaahling. Your Prince Charming might wear a blue jersey instead of a suit of armor.”
“Yeah, fat chance of that ever happening,” Callie responded. “Now let’s go get this over with so I can go home and study. And not sleep. Ever. Again.”
Kyle wipedthe sweat off his brow with the towel slung across his shoulders as another reporter shoved a microphone in his face. Standing probably around five foot eight on a good day, the paunchy, poorly dressed reporter in desperate need of hair plugs really had to stretch to reach the microphone within range of Kyle’s six nine frame.
“What did you contribute to the win tonight, Kyle? Your teammates seemed to rally behind you when you struggled early in the first half.”
Like you’ve never had a bad day at your job, ya friggin’ idiot, Kyle thought. He had already been outside the locker room for twenty minutes, answering stupid question after stupid question. He didn’t know how much more he could take before all the manners his Southern momma taught him flew out the window and he started telling these reporters how he really felt about them—that they were all, as his sister like to say, stupid heads.
Taking a deep breath, Kyle mustered up those deeply bred manners and responded with the requisite, generalized comment that was expected of him. “Yeah, they really had my back. I’m lucky they rallied and held off the Grizzlies for me in the first half. We all have bad days and today the first half was mine. Luckily, I was able to come back strong in the second half and get back in my groove, made a couple of lucky shots and we pulled out the win.”
“This puts you a solid four games ahead in the conference heading into the final leg before the playoffs. How does that make you feel?”
Where do they come up with these idiots? Kyle thought. I wonder what they would say if I said I couldn’t care less because all I wanted was for them to leave me alone so I could sleep for a solid week straight.
“I think this gives us the confidence we need heading into the playoffs. Hopefully it’s a downhill slide from here that will land us closer to the championship series. Now if you guys will excuse me, I have a long overdue shower that’s calling my name.”
Pushing his way through the crowd of reporters blocking the dressing room door, Kyle finally managed to make his way to his locker, and with a sigh, plopped down on the black leather cushioned bench in front of it.
“Did they finally get enough of pretty boy Kelly?” his best friend and point guard, Jamal Jenkins, asked him as he took off the towel from around his waist and popped it in Kyle’s direction.
“Man, put that thing away,” Kyle said.
“The towel or the fine specimen God gifted me with that you are constantly in envy of?” Jamal asked, eyes shifting to his nether regions as he wagged his eyebrows and pretended to smoke an imaginary cigar.
“Both,” Kyle said with a sigh. “Your fine specimen is too close to my eye level for comfort. Besides, I’m too tired to do much of anything besides take a shower and go home and fall into bed. Maybe eat some ramen, if I have the stamina to stir it in the pot.”
“Whatcha talkin’ ’bout, man? We got that promotional gig in about…ten minutes. The one with the season ticket holders. Meet and greet. Smile for the cameras and all that shit. It’s gonna be so much fun,” Jamal said, a fake grin plastered on his face.
Kyle groaned. “Man, I just got finished talking to reporters for half an hour. You’d think they’d give me a break tonight.”
“Nah, man, you the man of the hour. Er’body wants a piece a Kyle Kelly. That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
“Last time I checked, that Rolex you sport on your wrist and that Mercedes you drive weren’t paid for with a blue collar salary.”
“Hey, now, I ain’t complainin’ ’bout my salary,” Jamal responded, pulling a pair of jockey shorts up his legs. “I’m just sayin’ me and the other guys know who butters our bread. Which means very rarely do I have to talk to them vultures out there. So thank you for the bread, my man. Now go take a shower. You stink somethin’ awful.”
Kyle walked in the bathroom, which was empty except for him. All his other teammates had already showered and headed out to their families, to party or to do something else entirely. Kyle and Jamal were lucky enough to spend another two hours in the center, schmoozing the big-wig season ticket holders who all thought they were entitled enough to claim their minute of fame with the players. One jerk off last time had the audacity to offer to pay Kyle to take his daughter out on a date so she could be seen in public with a celebrity. One lady tried to get him to sign her silicon-enhanced boobs.
Some days Kyle thought of calling it quits. He wasn’t like other players. He was smart with his money. He lived well, but not extravagantly. With his investments as well as the celebrity marketing he had done with a few products, he could walk away and never want for anything else for the rest of his life. But the athlete in him, the one growing up who spent every spare minute of his day on the dirt basketball court in his backyard, yelled at him not to quit until one thing was marked off his bucket list—winning the NBA championship. Even if he did win it all, he doubted he could quit until he was too old to play. He loved the game too much.
“Hey, man! You ’bout done in there? Grant is ’bout to pop an aneurism in his brain, yellin’ that all the people are waitin’ on us to arrive,” Jamal yelled from the hallway.
“Tell him if I didn’t have to talk to reporters for thirty friggin’ minutes after the game I would already be there,” Kyle yelled back, stepping in the scalding hot water he had started as soon as Jamal started yelling. “He doesn’t want me sweating all over the uptight, entitled people we’re about to schmooze. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready.”
