All of my writing is fiction, and the stories and characters are products of my imagination. They were created for my fun and, hopefully, your enjoyment. Some of the events in the stories are not particularly condoned nor encouraged by the author but are there to create and enhance the story of the imaginary characters and their lives. Comments are always encouraged and carefully reviewed. All characters within the story that need to be are 18 years of age or older. I hope you enjoy! And take a second to vote and comment.
All of the characters in this story are fictional, but many of the places mentioned are real and familiar to the author. The players mentioned didn't actually play for the schools mentioned, nor are their statistics real.
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"How'd it go, Rex?" Dr. Brandon Thompson tossed his white coat into his locker and sat down on the bench. "It was a fairly simple gallbladder operation, but the guy had been through so much, I decided not to use the scope."
What was up with the guy?"
"Septic shock, gallstone in the bile duct, nearly died. He didn't need any more complications, but he wasn't happy that I was going to open him up."
"A few more days of discomfort. On another subject, I hear you're taking a vacation."
"It took a little doing, but I got them to let me go for two weeks."
"Going anywhere special?"
"You're full of questions today," Rex said with a chuckle as he carefully hung his coat in the locker. "Actually, I'm going to Ohio."
Brandon's head snapped around. "What the hell's in Ohio?"
Rex shook his head and smiled. "The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, The Pro Football Hall of Fame, John Glenn's home, Neal Armstrong's home. Should I go on?"
Brandon's turn to chuckle. "Now you're just throwing crap at me. You're not going to visit any of those places."
"I might."
"You're full of it, but if you've got some dark secret in Ohio, that's fine. Have a great time, whatever it is."
Thanks, Brandon. I'm planning on it."
Brandon slammed his locker door and was quickly out the door.
It certainly wasn't a dark secret, but it was a little unusual. If it didn't work out, no one would have to know about it. He would have to figure out what to tell Brandon, but he'd have a long drive home to work it out.
Rex closed the locker door, pleased that he wouldn't have to see it again for sixteen days, at least. He went to the parking lot and climbed into his Porsche Boxster, the first "toy" he'd allowed himself after his residency. His parents had wondered why anyone would buy a car with standard transmission, but he had loved it from the day he'd owned it. Well, make that the first week, after he'd learned to manage the clutch and shifting gears.
Home in his apartment, he was ready to pack, deciding how to pack for a trip that might be two days or two weeks. There was no question about it, actually. Despite how unique and oblique what he was doing might be, he had to be optimistic that he would be successful, or at least partially successful, whatever that might be. He packed two suitcases.
Lugging the two suitcases, he walked to the parking lot in his shirtsleeves, knowing he wouldn't be able to do that in Ohio. He'd checked the weather there yesterday, and the high temperature had been thirty-four. It would only be thirteen or fourteen days, but he was hoping it would be one of the best two weeks of his life.
He had sort of daydreamed about this after a bone and brain-wearying day at the hospital as he watched TV, struggling to keep from falling asleep. He had run it over and over in his mind, finally deciding to turn the daydreams into reality. Thus, the vacation and the trip to Ohio.
He plugged his phone into the Porsche USB outlet and set his Maps app to Columbus, Ohio, as his destination. He started off in first gear while knowing that most of the trip would be in sixth gear. Once in Ohio, he would be in first gear once again, hoping against hope that he would be in sixth gear by the end of the two weeks.
~~~
""No, no, no, Victoria! If you go behind the screen, she has an open three. You can't give Libby open threes."
"There was no way, coach. I'd have knocked Ashlyn on her butt."
Coach Presley turned toward Ashlyn.
"And do you know why she'd have knocked you on your ass?" Often, Coach Presley didn't mince her words.
Ashlyn thought she knew the answer but chose the path of discretion.
"Because you slid your foot and stuck out your hip. Illegal screen, and now the official is pulled into the game."
Coach scowled and paced.
"Details, details. Turnovers, offensive fouls, all crap that leads to a four-point turnaround. We don't score, and they do. Three or four of those in a game and you're talking maybe sixteen points. Even at fifty percent shooting, it's eight points. Look back at those two and three-point losses, and it's one play, one play that made the difference. Eliminate those mistakes, and you're a winner."
Coach Presley looked at Ashlyn for a moment.
"Karla, take over for a few." She beckoned to Ashlyn, and they both went to the edge of the floor and sat down in two of the chairs, always there for team meetings. It wasn't unusual for that to happen as, in almost every practice, she'd call one or two of the players aside for a private meeting.
"Almost six years now, Ashlyn."
Ashlyn smiled and nodded, remembering. The injured ankle her first year had caused Coach Presley to decide to redshirt her. Her redshirt freshman year had been even more than had been expected when she'd averaged fourteen points a game and moved into the starting lineup by midyear. Sophomore, junior, and senior years had been very similar, and she was now in her sixth year due to the NCAA granting an extra year of eligibility due to covid. Having started a year late to kindergarten, she was now twenty-four and well on the way to twenty-five.
"I've loved having you here and working with you, and I'm expecting to make a few trips next year to watch you play."
"Do you really think so, coach?" She knew that, of the hundreds of girls playing college basketball, the WNBA (Women's National Basketball Association) only drafted thirty-six players a year, and of those, usually only about one-third made a team. Long odds to be sure.
"You're what teams want, Ashlyn. You're steady, you're a leader, and you only understand one hundred and ten percent. You have a head for the game. You play tough defense, and you can rebound. And how many turnovers have you had this year through the first five games?"
Ashlyn shrugged. Not many, she was sure.
"One."
That simple word startled her. "Really?"
"You take care of the ball and things. Pro teams love that. By the end of the year, we'll have you ready to go in the top ten."
Ashlyn's mouth dropped open. "You really think that, coach?"
"Yep, and you need to start thinking that too. I'm going to be after you all year, pushing you so you'll push yourself. I can help, but I can't do it for you."
"Thanks, Coach."
"Hey, it's my job. The more All-Americans and WNBA draft picks I produce, the more games we win and the more money I make. See, it's just me being selfish." She laughed and hurried back toward the rest of the team.
Ashlyn waited a moment and then rejoined the team. Most of what she did in basketball was instinctive, but she was working hard to think a little more about what she was doing and analyze what went wrong and why when something did.
Practice was nearly over, and Ashlyn was standing with her hands on her knees, perspiration dripping from her chin, when Coach Presley stopped beside her.
"What's your free throw percentage so far?"
Ashlyn took a deep breath, knowing that Coach knew exactly what her percentage was.
"About eighty-four, I guess."
"Something to think about. Anything over ninety percent sounds really good, ya think?
"Yeah, but ..."
"I watched a little film, and I think you've speeded up those shots. I've said it lots of times, but concentration can sure improve free-throw shooting." She rubbed Ashlyn's dark blond hair.
"You ready to help?" she asked Mindy, one of the managers.
"Doing what?"
"Twenty minutes of foul shots."
"Sure, but you'll owe me?"
"Well, I already owe you a ton, so just add it to my tab." Ashlyn didn't have tons of NIL money, but she planned to use some of it to take the managers to dinner at the end of the season.
"If you make all the shots, it keeps me from having to chase the ball."
"I'll do my best."
Nine out of ten
echoed through her head as she stood at the line and shot. She was tired from the hard practice and began taking a deep breath before each shot, something she'd seen others do but had never felt necessary for herself. But when she sank sixteen consecutive free throws, she decided to add the breath to her routine. Simple, but obviously important.
As she headed to the locker room to shower and dress, she saw Coach Presley smiling at her.
~~~
Rex pulled onto the exit ramp, rounded the corner, and pulled into the truck stop. His father had told him that he'd grown up hearing that truck stops had some of the best food available. He decided to give it a try.
As he waited for his food, he used his phone to check his motel reservations and then to purchase a ticket to the Ohio State women's basketball game scheduled for the following evening.
The food was good, better than average even, and he decided he'd try another truck stop on his return trip, whenever that might be. He hoped to get to Columbus at eight or eight-thirty, grab some dinner, and retire to his room with a bottle of wine and the medical magazine that he'd brought alone, hoping to catch up on a couple of subjects. Actually, he was hoping to be too busy to have time to read, but that might just be a hopeful fantasy.
He did just that for dinner, enjoying turkey, dressing, and mashed potatoes, all covered in delicious gravy. He'd learned to eat it that way at Grandma's, and he loved to recreate it whenever he could. He found a wine shop and picked up a bottle of Chardonnay. He loved the article in the magazine
Fun and Fascinating Things to do with Arthroscopic Surgery
. The author had been heavily criticized for writing about a serious subject in a light-hearted manner. However, the article conveyed the necessary information in language that was fun to read.
Rex made a mental note to send a message commending the author.
The next morning, he grabbed a good breakfast and drove around Columbus. In the afternoon he used the motel's workout equipment, then spent some time in the hot tub and the pool. He'd skipped lunch, so he had a big dinner in the restaurant just two doors from the motel. He showered, dressed, and, despite the temperature, walked to the Schott, where the Buckeyes played their basketball games.
He'd paid a little more for the ticket, but he was close to the floor, the action, and the players. He was there early to watch the teams warm up. As he watched, he realized that he was a little nervous. He chuckled to himself. He was a thirty-one-year-old surgeon who repaired people and sometimes saved their lives. There was no reason to be nervous. He watched the two teams head back to their locker rooms for last-minute instructions before the game began.
~~~
