Previously known as Secrets // Kyrie Irving.
In honor of my thirteen-year-old self, I have kept the book as I first wrote it. No edits, no changes, no adaptations. So, if you so please, come join the adventures of Kyrie Irving and company as they t...
"We up 2-1, baby!" I say, slapping LeBron on the back. He smiles and pulls me under his arm.
"Don't let it get to your head, Ky, long way to go." That's the LeBron I know. He gets excited, but always stay so locked in. That's why he's as good as he is. The chatter doesn't matter. "That girl, though." He says, laughing.
"Oh my..." I shake my head, muttering under my breath. "I didn't actually need your help, you know that, right?"
"Dude, you wouldn't have even had the courage to ask her for her number without my help."
"I'm actually quite smooth, you should know that by now."
"Uh-huh," He sticks his tongue in his cheek, eyebrows raised, suggesting he knows better.
"What?!" I burst out, apparently loud enough for the rest of the guys in the locker room to erupt in laughter. Delly walks over to us from the bench.
"Mate, we all know you can land a girl. But somehow that one just got under your skin. It's a darn good thing she new who you were, I don't think you coulda told her your name." This sets off another bought of laughter and impression of me stammering out 'Kyrie.' Frustrated and slightly amused, I roll my eyes at the banter.
"You gonna text her?" 'Bron asks.
"Tonight? Isn't that a little overeager?"
"The way you were acting? I don't think it would surprise her that much."
"Geez, y'all must be in pretty high moods if you're acting this childish." I say, referencing the new round of snickers that have domino-ed through the room. With that, I refuse to answer anymore questions about Sabrina and limp my way through the room to grab my few remaining things.
I sit at my home a few hours later, leg propped up, typing up a message on Twitter.
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As much as I love showing the guys support, I'd rather being playing the game and cheering for them. It's just not the same to sit on the bench and watch your brothers go out there and play the games of their lifetime. I almost can't stand sitting here. The pain, though fading, is still present so I'm waiting idle till I start my rehab regimen.
The medical team isn't sure when I'll be able to play again. They have, however, assured me, I will. It's not career ending. One thing they all agree on is I won't be ready at the start of the season. Could be as late as December but could be as early as November. It all depends on the health of my knee and how good I feel physically. Even I understand, as much as it kills me, there is no sense is playing prematurely and getting injured again.
I just can't help but think that Cleveland might gets its first ring in a very, very long time and I won't even be a part of it.
Sabrina-
Holy fricken' crap. I think, as I walk out to the bus after the game. Cleveland's up 2-1 and Kyrie Irving has my cell phone number. Part of me is telling myself to chill, and I appear it on the outside. But the other half, reflected on the inside, is freaking out. I mean, Kyrie Irving asked for my number, in the most un-smooth way I have ever been asked. And it was kind of sweet.
My second thought is I should probably tell Danielle, but for some reason I want to keep this to myself. I go through about a minute long internal battle of back and forth arguments before decided to stay quite. Danielle is not the most subtle person around, and the last thing I need is for Kyrie to get wind of who my dad is... or dating rumors.
My phone buzzes against my hand and I look down with a glimmer of hope, but it's just a twitter notification.
It's a several minute walk to the bus, but the crisp air wakens me up and the silence allows me to think about all that happened tonight. The obvious question preys in the back of mind. How soon should I tell him who my dad is... or should I? Now maybe I'm jumping to conclusion a little bit, but he did beckon me down to talk to him and asked for my number. As much as I sometimes wish I was one of those girls with the 'Oh, he couldn't possible like me even though he acts like' type of attitude, I'm not. I've always seen things for what they are, and I'm very rarely wrong.
Kyrie has my number, so now it's just up to him to use it. I don't know exactly what I'll do once that happens, but...
I reach the bus station and sit down on the cold, metal bench. There are a few minutes to spare, but I won't have to wait that long. To help pass the time, I check my phone and try to make a quick call to my Mom, since I'm in Cleveland, but she doesn't pick up. The bus hasn't come yet, but out of the corner of my eye I see a slick black car slowly pull up. It's a newer model, maybe an Accord, but regardless I feel my body start to tense up. It's pulled over to the side now and is inching forward
It halts and the drivers door swings open.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing out here by yourself?"
