Book IV of UNC Series
Carter Blake hates the world, but most importantly, the people that occupy it. He wants to insulate himself and only focus on getting through school and basketball. After suffering at the hands of his alcoholic mother, he wants...
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I wait for Mom's old beat-up Civic to roll to a stop at the signal before turning to face Dad with a soft, grateful smile. His fresh cup of coffee is aromatic and crisp as it fills my nose, along with his deodorant and minty mouthwash that I'm sure he gargled before leaving the house. Soft, melodic musical tones of Sinatra spill from the radio in a low hum. The windows are open, allowing the gentle, balmy breeze to fill the car despite the early morning chill.
"Thanks, Dad," I mumble.
I hated being there. Mom made such a big deal about me going when some teammates invited me for a sleepover. She only wanted me to because she was worried I was being reclusive, surrounding myself with books and basketball, isolating myself.
And honestly, I only went to please Mom and get her off my back.
I knew my teammates only tolerated me because of my mediocre talent in handling a basketball. I was only invited because I overheard them talking about it during practice. They were just being polite, assuming I wouldn't come.
They hadn't met the stubborn Mary Blake if they thought that.
I'll always be the weird, quiet kid to them, who never talked and preferred to have my head buried in a book. I probably didn't do myself any favours by leaving in the middle of the night.
But I couldn't stand it. It was barely three in the morning, and I couldn't sleep while the guys were still playing GTA. I just wanted to go home. But when I texted Dad, I didn't expect him to respond immediately, much less drop everything to pick me up.
"Of course, kid. You know I would do anything for you and your brother," he reaches over to clamp a hand on my shoulder.
His responding smile brightens the curved corners of my lips. I squint and grimace when a pair of beaming lights becomes too blinding. Dad's fading smile is the last thing I see before I cower, covering my eyes and wondering how a car could be heading right for us at a red-light signal.
A resounding slap on my shoulder breaks me out of my trance. I blink, still dazed, as I gaze around. Flashing lights filter before me, and the heat of media cameras swarm my vision as hundreds of people stand huddled in the crowd, biting their nails in fraught tension.
A gleaning layer of sweat resides over my skin as droplets bead down my spine.
Snapping my attention to my shoulder, noting the way tanned fingers dig into my shoulder. My eyes wander up his sleeved arm to meet his frantic and anxious dark brown eyes.
"What are you doing? We need you out there," Andre Davis, my teammate for the last five years—both when I attended Cardill High School and the past three at Weston Cardill University—huffs as he pushes off with a shake of his head to run onto the court.
Standing, I shake the memory of that night from my mind. I'm trying to recall why I suddenly remembered that night tonight of all nights. I'm usually always plagued by those nightmares, but I've never been so lost during a game.
