When I was seven my dad began teaching me how to shoot hoops. Every night after dinner if it wasn't raining or snowing we would spend hours in the driveway with his worn out ball and the rusty metal hoop hanging perilously off the front of the garage. "Dribble with your left hand," he would chastise me when I would use my strong right. "Move your feet, don't be so stiff." So I would move, putting all my tap and ballet classes to good use, finally. My mom would sometimes sit out there with us, lounging in a lawn chair, just watching, always smiling, but also waiting for me to be done so she could check my homework.
My dad and I would play and sweat and laugh and tell stories. At first, all the stories were his; about his college basketball team, his high school coach, the players he knew growing up who were now in the NBA. When I started playing for my school teams, I had stories of my own. Everything was a lesson, another way for me to improve, to learn how to be better, to learn how to act on the court and off. My mom, conversely, preferred to drill me on math equations, historical events, chemical compounds, advanced vocabulary. Life with a professor and a failed professional athlete was nothing if not a lesson in dualities.
When I hit high school, I made the varsity team my freshman year and was team captain by the time I was a junior. My dad came to every game. Every single one. My mom came sometimes too, but she was more interested in my grades than my shooting percentage. I started taking advanced placement courses my sophomore year. By the time I graduated, I had earned enough credits to skip my freshman year of college and was being heavily scouted by some of the best college teams in the country. Luckily, one thing my parents agreed on was that I should attend the University of Texas at Austin to play for the Longhorns and start work on my law degree that my mother was determined I would finish even if I got drafted. Did I want to be a lawyer? Not necessarily. But considering nearly everything I had done in my life had been motivated by my overwhelming need to impress my dad, I figured I could at least try to be interested in law for my mom.
That's how a nice midwestern girl like me ended up in Texas, playing power forward for the Longhorns and enrolled in the classes necessary for a pre-law degree. I was...excited when I first came to the Lone Star State. But once that wore off, I was mostly just lonely. I liked my new teammates, but I missed practicing with my dad. I missed him breaking down my every move after the game, telling me what I did well and where I needed to improve. My coaches at the university did that for me, but it wasn't the same. I missed my mom playfully rolling her eyes at us as we talked of nothing but basketball over every meal. I even missed her drilling me daily about my school work, though she made sure to do it every time she got me on the phone.
I missed my friends who were now scattered all over the country, moving onto better things, new friendships. We stayed in touch as best we could, but it's never the same when you can't meet face to face. Truthfully, I was making new friends as well and I think what I missed more than anything was getting regular action from my boyfriend Damien. He was about as far away from me as one could get, attending Harvard, also for law, and for their basketball program. Separated by miles we called and texted, Skyped and Facetimed in an effort to stay connected. It felt forced, but I had been willing to do whatever it took to ensure he didn't forget me. Before we had left home, we made plans about trips we would take together over school breaks and fantasized about both of us ending up in the NBA and WNBA. We were young and in love. At least, we had convinced ourselves that we were and that our relationship would be different, that the distance wouldn't affect us. We were stupidly optimistic and in the thick of it, we had been trying so hard to make it work. It wasn't working.
One month into the semester, only four weeks spent apart and we were at each other's throats every time we spoke. We were both stressed and trying to adjust to new environments and expectations. Instead of handling it like the adults we were supposed to be, we just lashed out at each other for lack of a better outlet. During a particularly vicious argument, he accused me of letting the entire boy's basketball team gang bang me. Which, by the way, was not true; I had not been unfaithful to him at the time he made that accusation. However, it was if he knew how desperately I actually would have loved for the boys team to go to town on me, three at a time filling every hole, one after another, anyway they wanted.
Damien and I had started sleeping together when we were fifteen, so I was used to having regular orgasms. Alone in Texas, I was horny and frustrated, stressed about school and the team. You hear a lot of stories about college athletes, how they never go to class, professors pass them even if they don't turn in any work, and most of them just killing time until they can be drafted. But that wasn't me, and not just because my mom would have beat my ass bloody if I had acted like that. I always had pride in myself, in my skills on the court and my intelligence. I wanted to finish my degree even if I did get drafted and there was no guarantee that I would be, so I felt it wise to focus on my classes as well as basketball. I was determined to be everything to everyone, star player and straight A student. Admittedly, it was taking a toll on my mental health and the fights with Damien were equally if not entirely my fault.
To relieve stress I had two passed times, hitting the gym to sweat it out and masturbating. Since my roommate was perpetually occupying our tiny shared dorm, usually in the company of some guy or another, I tended to do both things at the school's training facility. One night after a screaming match over the phone with Damien, I found myself jogging across campus toward the gym to work off some tension.
It was past ten, but the building was open 24/7. I was alone on the court, possibly in the entire building, just me, the basket, and a rack full of balls. I worked on my jump shot from all angles and distances. Midrange had always been a challenge for me; I had too much power so I always overshot. Three pointers though, I was as good as money in the bank. And with my size, being almost six foot and built strong and lean, driving to the lane to take easy layups was never an issue. Free throws, on the other hand, were a nightmare. Being big inside the paint meant I got fouled a lot and that meant, if I didn't want to embarrass myself, I needed to make my throws.
This night in particular I was forcing myself to put in work at the line, taking throw after throw, determined not to stop until I hit twenty in a row. I was up to nineteen for about the tenth time, exhausted, and near tears. Even though I had come to the court to destress, the pressure I put on myself to excel athletically made it so I couldn't find respite even in my favorite sport. I had been at it for over three hours all told and I just wanted to go home, but I was too stubborn to give up. Actually, I take that back, I wanted to rub one out in the shower and then go home.
I let out a long, slow breath, "Ok, one more and you can go. You can do it." I tossed the ball between my hands, spinning it a few times. I raised my arms and released. The ball hit the rim with an obnoxious clang before rebounding back toward my head. I caught it and then unceremoniously threw it at the wall. "God fucking damn it."
"Whoa now, it's not that serious, is it?"
I whipped around, too shocked to discover I wasn't alone to worry about having my missed shot and subsequent temper tantrum witnessed. By the door at the other end of the gym I saw a young guy about my age, tall, solid, dark, and looking annoyingly chipper even from a distance. I was in no mood to be bothered, especially since I would have to either resign myself to leaving before I had accomplished my goal, or subject myself to another round of throws that I was not sure my arms could handle. Making nineteen free throws in a row is nothing to scoff at, but I knew I could do better. "Can I help you?"
He dropped his bag on the bleachers as he came toward me, giving me a better look at him. He had on the gym uniform: athletic shorts, t-shirt, sneakers. I wore the same, only he was crisp and dry while I was rather wilted and soaked in sweat. Taller than me by at least 10 inches, he had a wide smile formed from full lips, light brown eyes, closely trimmed hair, and rounded ears protruding distinctly from each side of his head. On anyone else these cartoonesque ears might have appeared dorky, but on him they seemed enduring. He was adorably cute in the way only guys entirely at ease with themselves can be. My mouth suddenly went dry. Ok, maybe he can bother me, just a bit, I thought.
He extended a hand, "Marcel Allan, I just transferred from Duke."
I had heard of him. "Yeah, new power forward." I shook his hand after wiping my sweaty palm on my sweaty cotton shorts, which really didn't help the situation very much.
"You must be Lillianna, my female counterpart, right?" He smiled at me and I'm ashamed to say I became almost giddy. Jesus Lord, I wanted to get lost in those dimples.
I tried to compose myself, "Yeah, how'd you know?"
"Every town's a small town in Texas. People talk." That was something I had begun to realize myself. He sounded slightly Texan himself so I asked where he was from. "Dallas, born and raised."
"How'd you end up at Duke then and not here to start with?"
"Longhorns didn't need me, until they did." He held out his hands, showing me he was pleased as punch to be back in his home state.
"Well then, welcome home, Marcel." I started toward the bleachers to grab my things and he followed me.
"I can help you with your shot."
"Excuse you?"
"Your midrange game needs work, and your free throws. I bet you can hit threes like it ain't nothing though, right?"
"How long were you watching me?"
He bit his lip and I found myself staring at his mouth. "Not long."
"Then how do you know I can hit threes?"
