Long Shot: A Forbidden Basketball Standalone Romance (HOOPS Book 1)
Long Shot: Chapter 25

“I’ll be fine here by myself, Ramone.”

He’s in the driver’s seat of the SUV I used to drive before Caleb took my license, and I’m in the back seat. The community center, sweet freedom—at least for two hours—is across the street.

“I’m coming with you.” He undoes his seatbelt.

“No.” Our eyes lock in the rearview mirror while I unsnap Sarai’s car seat. “It’s a community center for kids. It will look ridiculous for you to come in there with us. I’ll meet you here when I’m done.”

He eyes me with suspicion.

“Don’t worry. I know I can’t leave without being arrested for kidnapping,” I say bitterly. “Or having social services show up at my door. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Ramone doesn’t look concerned that I know he lied to social services. Anyone who’ll stand by complicit while Caleb does the things he does to me can’t have any shame.

“Two hours.” He bounces a glance from the community center to his watch. “I’ll be right here.”

I make a run for it before he changes his mind. I set Sarai up in her stroller, grab her diaper bag, and barely close the door before I’m pushing her down the sidewalk. I’m determined to have some time without Ramone breathing down my neck. It’s been even worse this week with Caleb in China. The watch dog is on high alert, and I’m sure he’s under strict instructions to report any unusual behavior. Like the emergence of a backbone or will.

My life has been relatively tranquil with Caleb gone. I only have a few bruises in places no one will see. I’m relieved, for once, not to have injuries to cover up, besides the ones under my skin, around my heart. Those are the worst of all.

I reach the community center entrance. We’re not quite in the hood, not quite in the suburbs. I know hood—I negotiated it the first twelve years of my life, and this ain’t it. There’s not a crackhead or prostitute in sight. The building has seen better days, but it’s clean and in decent repair.

The young woman at the front desk looks up from her romance novel to offer me a pleasant smile.

“Hi.” I give her a smile back. “I’m here for the basketball camp.”

She inspects all my details. I dressed as unassumingly as possible, but after my pregnancy, Caleb “surprised” me with a whole new wardrobe. At the time I chided myself for not feeling more grateful, but now I recognize it as one more puppet string he pulled to exercise his control. My dark jeans are simple, but expensive. I only brought Sarai’s diaper bag, but it’s designer. Not to mention the albatross of a ring on my finger. With Caleb making such a big deal of it at the dinner, I dare not show up to volunteer without it. The ring and Sarai are his accessories, further presenting him as the ideal family man instead of the monster I know and hate.

“You a baller’s wife, huh?” she asks, glancing at Sarai in the stroller.

“Um, girlfriend.”

I know what people think when they see me: that I’ve got it made and Sarai is the meal ticket that sets me up for life, or at least until she’s eighteen. They have no idea that under this silk blouse tucked into my designer jeans, bruises, black and blue and yellow, often splatter my ribs like ink blots—that on the regular, I taste my own blood. I’d trade with the poorest, with the homeless, with this young lady right here, just to be free of the tailless devil I sleep with every night.

“I heard I might be able to put my baby in daycare while I’m volunteering.” I look around the small lobby curiously. “Could I see it?”

I definitely need to know what it’s like before I leave Sarai there.

When we round the corner, an older woman, probably somebody’s grandmother, makes her way over to the half-door, the bottom secured and the top open.

“Who’s this little darling?” she asks, leaning out and smiling widely at Sarai. My daughter never meets a stranger and immediately begins blowing bubbles and waving her little starfish hands.

“Her name’s Sarai.” I pull her out of the stroller. “You have room for her?”

“Sure do.” She opens the bottom half of the door and gestures for me to come in. “I’m Audrey.”

The space designated for the daycare is small, but tidy and orderly, with just a few kids around Sarai’s age crawling and toddling around. Changing tables line the perimeter of the room, and shelves stocked with books and toys dot the walls. The four other daycare workers range from about my age to Audrey’s. All are either changing babies or playing with them on the floor or rocking them in the glider in the corner. It feels warm and safe. I can breathe easy for two hours.

Once I’ve checked Sarai in and taken the little pager they issued in case they needed me, I head back to the front desk. Two other women stand there, similarly attired in designer jeans, like me, but where I opted for flats, they wear stilettos. Their glamor quotient is definitely several notches above mine. No rings in sight.

“The kids will be going in that room down the hall on your left.” The young desk attendant points in that direction. “They’ll be in after they wrap up their morning activity. You can wait if you’d like.”

Both women start down the hall without really acknowledging me, their heads bent together in whispers while they walk. When we reach the room and it’s just the three of us, it’s awkward for me to just stand here. I extend my hand to one of them. “Hey, I’m Iris.”

They look at my hand for a few seconds before one and then the other shake it.

The second one grabs my left hand when she shakes my right.

“Oh, nice.” She eyes my ring so long I wonder if she’ll pull out a magnifying glass. “And she said you went to the nursery. You got the baby and the bling.”

They exchange a meaningful look and then turn back to me with new respect in their eyes.

“You are #Goals, honey. Smart to get what you can while you can. You think a baller has a short run? Our shelf life is even less,” one of them says. Flattering highlighted extensions fall past her shoulders, and she has a body that men must drool over. “I’m Sheila.”

“Nice to meet you, Sheila,” I reply with a smile that’s not an open door, but not quite slammed in your face. It’s . . . ajar. I’m ajar. Since Caleb showed his true colors, I replace myself closing ranks around Sarai and me. I can’t afford attachments or vulnerabilities or friendships. I don’t know who to trust anymore. The last person I trust is myself because I didn’t truly see Caleb until it was too late. Trusting the wrong person can destroy you.

“And I’m Torrie,” the other woman, statuesque with skin smooth as whipped chocolate and a cap of dark curls, offers her hand, tipped with a metallic manicure.

“I think it’s just the three of us today,” Sheila says, pulling up a red plastic chair and gesturing for me to do the same. “Bonnie is ‘sick’ again.” She air quotes sick.

Torrie leans close and speaks her next words sotto voce. “Her man plays for the Stingers, too, and she is always fly.”

“But he beats her ass every chance he gets,” Sheila finishes, her mouth tipped at one corner. “So when she’s ‘sick,’ we know that’s code for ‘he got hold of her again.’”

I freeze in my chair, nausea starting in my belly and slowly crawling over my body, touching every inch of flesh and bone Caleb has terrorized. I keep my face a mask of mild curiosity, but my fingers clench in my palm, the nails cutting into the skin. It’s been a few weeks since the last time Caleb really beat me, so other than the occasional easily hidden bruise or cut, you wouldn’t look at me and know the hell I’ve lived through. Right now, though, I may as well be naked I feel so exposed.

“She won’t ever leave,” Torrie says, sitting down in the seat between us. “That money’s too good.”

Or maybe she’s afraid he’ll kill her.

“Girl, the first time a man hits me,” Torrie says, lips twisted with disdain, “he’s getting hit back. Slapped upside his head.”

But what if he’s a foot taller? A hundred pounds heavier? What if he has a gun?

“I don’t know why she stays,” Torrie continues. “But me and my kids would be out the door.”

But could he bring them back? Could he take her children?

“She has kids?” I ask, not wanting to show too much interest.

“Girl, they have four kids,” Sheila confirms. “Been together like seven years, since college.”

“Maybe she’s afraid he’ll get custody or something,” I offer.

“Not if he beats her!” Torrie’s voice is indignant. “They won’t give him the kids if he’s abusive.”

“They do,” I counter quietly. “It happens all the time, especially if he’s never abused the children and has no record. Lots of abusers get partial custody. Some even get to visit at the women’s shelter she ran to. Our system fails women in lots of ways.”

“Hmmmph. She’s failing herself,” Sheila says. “When somebody is beating the shit out of you, how hard is ‘bye?’”

Sheila and Torrie share a cackling laugh and high-five over the joke, moving on to other juicy bits of gossip. Their conversation passes me by. I’m too busy processing what my life looks like from the outside. I know I’m not what people might assume—I’m not a mercenary, or a weak-willed woman afraid to leave her man, or even confused because I think Caleb loves me. Still, shame takes root in my heart. The same shame I feel when Andrew tends my cuts and scrapes the morning after. The same shame I feel when I see my puffy face in the mirror, one eye swollen shut. There’s a rebel inside, but the girl he hits and kicks and rapes and scorns, the one biding her time and straining her eyes for a way out, she feels shame.

“Either of you know what we’re doing today?” Torrie reaches for gum in her purse and offers us both a stick. “My man’s in Germany scoping, so I needed something to do anyway.”

“Today’s the first day,” Sheila says, popping the stick of gum into her mouth. “We’ll pass out some jerseys and autographed photos. They’ll want to get pictures, some with us, but mostly with the basketball player.”

“Basketball player?” I ask. “I thought we were standing in for the basketball players.”

“They found someone to come in to cover this week,” Torrie says. “Not sure who. It’ll be pretty laidback this first day. He’ll work on a few fundamentals, some simple drills, and then some role model stuff.”

“At least that’s how it’s gone before,” Shelia adds.

Sylvia enters the room before I can probe further. She splits a smile between the three of us and greets us warmly.

“Thank you, ladies, for being here today.” She eyes me nervously, maybe because of how much Caleb resisted me coming. “The kids are in for a real treat. One of the most popular players of the game today will be here all week.”

“Who is it?” I ask idly, not really caring.

“It’s me,” a familiar voice reaches across the room and snares my full attention.

All the air leaves the room, leaves my lungs. My heart is a boom of thunder, and lightning streaks through my veins. Just like at the basketball game, and like every time I’ve seen him, I can’t ignore him; I can’t take my eyes off August West standing in the doorway.

I only allow myself a second of shock before the danger of this situation crystallizes as a stone in my belly. I have no idea what this will drive Caleb to do if he replaces out. If Ramone sees, he’s sure to tell.

Self-preservation has me on my feet. Wisdom has me brushing past August without looking him in the eye. Desperation has me doing what Caleb’s lies and brutality keep me from doing every day.

I run.