I dribbled, keeping one eye on the defender, shielding the ball with my body, looking for one of the other players to come open in the middle. But there was someone in the lane every time one of them made a cut, and the shot clock was winding down. Time to make something happen.
I focused on my defender, saw his eyes watching me. I feinted to the right; he took a half-step to cut me off, but didn't over-commit. He was a good defender, so he expected me to fake one way then go the other. I gave him what he expected to see—I crossed over to my left hand, and took a step towards the inside. Now he bit, moving strong to cut me off and going for the steal, coming up with nothing but air as I deftly executed a spin, switched back to the right hand and drove through the space he had just vacated. Seemingly in slow motion, the center left his man as did the forward on the wing, moving to intercept me on the way to the hole. I was giving up eight inches to one and four to the other, but that was OK because I wasn't shooting anyway—they just didn't know that. I took one more step and elevated, looking like was going to drive on the center. I thought he might jump up and go for the block, but because he thought I was driving he stood his ground, thinking to take the charge. That just made it easier for me. I didn't drive; I jumped straight up. The forward coming across hadn't committed, and now jumped, trying to reach his hand into my face to block a pull-up jumper that never came. Instead, I softly lobbed the ball high to the left of the basket, where the center that was now left undefended was already going up. He received the ball and slammed it through with a two-handed tomahawk jam. The crowd jumped to its feet screaming, whereas I calmly backpedaled on defense, low-fiving the center on his way by. I ended up the game with only 16 points but 12 assists (my season averages were 21 and 8). More importantly we won the game, improving to 8-2 in the conference and tied for first place.
People tell me I get my ball skills from my mom. I think I get my quickness from my mom, a former pro cheerleader and still an amazing athlete in her mid-40s, but I think that my dad deserves more credit than he gets. I think I get my shooting and basketball smarts I get from BOTH sides of the family. Either way I won the genetic lottery; a four-year starter at a big-time program, a virtual lock to be all-conference for the third time, projected to go in the mid-first round in the June pro draft. That is, if I'm drafted at all. See, there's a bit of a problem: Association rules prevent anyone from having a significant interest in more than one franchise. That rule almost never comes into play, but it does for me. My name is Davis Rutherford IV, and I am the heir to pro basketball's Jammers franchise.
Ever since I was able to walk, I have lived and breathed Jammers basketball. Even if there weren't a rule, I've made it abundantly clear that I will NOT play for any other team. If someone else drafts me trying to blackmail my dad (as GM) to overpay for me, I've already said I have no problem sitting out and working in the front office until I can play for us—but it would piss me off bigtime. I passed up the chance to play for the very best teams in the country coming out of high school, opting instead for a medium-size private college that allowed me to stay in town just to be close to the Jammers. Not a bad consolation prize, because it's a historical basketball school (no football program anymore) that plays in the powerhouse Eastern Major conference. Now that I was a senior, we were the best team the school had seen in 30 years. I almost wasn't part of it; I wanted to declare for the draft a year early because the Jammers need a point guard, and that's what I play. We hadn't had a good one since Marshall Jacobs retired when I was a kid. I'm already better than current starter Casey McKutcheon—I know, because I kick his ass whenever I scrimmage with the team. But my dad insists that the long-term future of the Jammers is more important than one year, and insisted that I get my degree first. I'll need it to run the team someday, and I know he's right.
As the team was huddling at center court to celebrate another win, I was sneaking a peek at the sidelines, as often I do, watching my favorite cheerleader: Kelly Callahan. Long straight red hair, long lean legs to match, and a killer body in-between. Jumping up and down, holding her pom-poms over her head celebrating, naturally widened the separation between the two pieces of her uniform, showing even more of the fine porcelain skin of her midriff, and the delicate curve of her waist... wouldn't it figure, the girl I
really
want is about the only girl on campus that won't give me any play. We even have a class together, a low-probability coincidence at a major college, especially since she's a year behind me and in a different major. I sit behind her, and while she's always polite, she's also clearly standoffish. Everyone knew that her cheer partner Chad was her boyfriend, but they also didn't look like any boyfriend and girlfriend I've ever seen. They never seemed to show any affection, and he seemed more uncomfortable lifting her than the other guys that aren't lifting girlfriends. He kept an eye on everything she did like a hawk, though—a little scary, that dude, but most guys didn't take him to be too serious of a roadblock. Kelly, on the other hand, cold stymied any other guy's ambitions on her—especially mine.
I became aware that I too was also being watched. Glancing to my left, I saw one of the other cheerleaders giving
me
the eye. Megan was blonde, cute, short, bouncy, she had endless energy on the court--and in bed. When our eyes met, she winked, knowing that I was going to drop by her apartment later. Yeah, Kelly is the girl I want, but what am I gonna do? Sit around and mope about it, or drop in on Megan for some guaranteed pussy? Easy call in my book. Yet I also know that attitude is the main reason why Kelly consistently gives me the cold shoulder.
My dad says that when he went to college, most people just knew him as "Dave" and had no idea who he was. Hell, my mom was a Jammer Spirit girl and dated him for a month before she found out. I know he tells me that because he thinks I should do the same, but I can't—even if I wasn't the heir to a basketball team, everyone on campus would still know me because this is a basketball school and I'm the biggest star this team has had for a long time. That alone makes me very attractive to a lot of girls, so I get LOTS of unsolicited offers—and frankly, I don't see any reason why I should turn them down. My mom despises my "womanizing" and my dad worries about the financial implications of my knocking some girl up. He has a valid point, which is why I buy condoms in industrial quantities. I think maybe girls just assume my family is swimming in money because we own a basketball team, but the reality is my branch of the family inherited the team, and all of the other Rutherford assets went to the other kids to balance things out. Thus the team is all we have; we NEED the team to turn a profit every year to stay solvent. A couple of bad years in a row and we might be forced to sell the team great-grandpa founded, which would be devastating. But the helpful girls that spread their legs for me don't know that, and I don't see any reason why I should tell them.
Hey—I make no bones about the fact that I'm taking advantage of these girls. But in my defense, I never lie about my intentions; if a girl wants to know if she'll mean something to me if we go to bed, I come right out and tell her I'm only in it for a good time and usually that will be that. Most girls don't ask about that up front, though, and sometimes when they do it can lead to hard feelings. And unfortunately, that turned out to be the night that Megan wanted to talk about us, and since as a matter of principle I won't lie to get a girl in bed, my visit was very brief. And I felt bad because Megan did come away from it with hard feelings—but my nuts were also aching to twitch if you know what I mean, so against my better judgment I called in Plan B.
Simply put, Tanya was my booty call girl. A member of the current Jammer Spirit dance team, she was bound and determined to land me for herself. I don't think there's anything she wouldn't do if she thought it might improve her chances of "landing" me. She always sent me a text after my games saying how good I played; usually I just ignored the, but tonight I replied:
Thx. Going out to the Distillery to celebrate.
I didn't drink during the season because it was against team policy at my school, but I still liked to go to bars because the women that went there did. I knew that once she got my text, Tanya would be at the bar within the hour, looking for me, barely dressed and ready to go. I imagined she'd wear fetish-height heels, a scandalously short skirt, and an easily removable top that provided a good view of her luscious cleavage. She'd take me to her place, and I wouldn't be one step in her door before she was on her knees sucking my dick. I'd let her deep throat me for a while, then I'd take her to sofa or maybe the bed... I thought I'd probably head straight for the lube tonight. I knew where she kept it--a tube in the living room AND in the bedroom. I'd grease up, and then I'd shove my dick between the tight cheeks of her ass, forgoing her pussy altogether. I'd fuck her like a porn star--and tomorrow I'd feel guilty about it. Tanya's ambition made it SO easy to manipulate her; she just didn't get that letting me fuck her like a whore was not the road to becoming Mrs. Rutherford. But for me, on a night like this, it was also very fortunate.
-------------
"Hey Kelly," I said in casual greeting as I took the seat next to her in class on Monday. She gave me a stare that could freeze lava. "Whoa? What did I do?" I asked, having a pretty good idea of the answer.
"I think that what you did to Megan was despicable," she answered coldly.
"Oh? And what exactly do you think that I 'did' to Megan?" I challenged.
"You know what you did," was the frosty response.
"You're right,
I
