Guarding the Soul (Love on the Court - Book #2)

ALEX

🏀

There are three kinds of people in the world.

People who love cardio.

People who tolerate cardio because apparently heart disease is bad.

And Coach Daniels, who I’m reasonably sure jerks off to suicides.

“Baseline!”

A collective groan rolls through the gym.

Coach cups a hand around his ear. “Sorry, Dawson. Did you have something to add?”

Me specifically. Of course.

I straighten, hands braced on my knees, sweat dripping off the end of my nose onto the polished hardwood. “Just saying how grateful I am for the opportunity to better myself, Coach.”

Hunter snorts somewhere behind me.

“Good. Then you can lead.”

Fuck me.

I drag myself upright and look down the line at the rest of the Titans. Twelve sweaty assholes stare back at me, most of them openly delighted by my suffering. Carter, standing two spots down, doesn’t even bother hiding his grin.

Best friend my ass.

“You’re all welcome,” I tell them.

“Run, Dawson.”

Right.

I push off.

The first sprint isn’t bad. Neither is the second. By the fourth, my lungs are considering early retirement and somebody behind me sounds like he’s actively dying.

Probably Hunter.

Could check.

Won’t.

If he drops, someone will yell.

I hit the opposite baseline, turn, and accelerate again. My shoes squeak against the floor, legs burning as I push harder because if Coach is going to punish me for having a personality, the least I can do is win.

There’s Carter at my left shoulder.

Naturally.

“You’re getting slow,” he pants.

I glance sideways. Dark hair damp with sweat, green eyes narrowed on the line ahead, Carter Harris still somehow manages to look annoyingly put together while being tortured.

I hate pretty people.

“You’re getting old.”

“I’m six months older than you.”

“Exactly. Basically retirement.”

He laughs, and something in my chest eases before I can stop it.

It’s stupid. He’s been laughing for months now. Real laughing, too, not that weird fake Carter laugh he used to do when he wanted everyone to believe he was having the best fucking time of his life.

I know the difference now.

Wish I’d known it sooner.

Not exactly something I spend a lot of time thinking about, because there’s no point.

He had shit going on.

He didn’t tell me.

I didn’t figure it out.

Then everything exploded, his mom died, his dad turned out to be an even bigger piece of shit than previously advertised, and somehow Carter came out the other side looking more like himself than he had in years.

Still an asshole.

Just a happier asshole.

I’ll take it.

I beat him to the baseline by half a step.

“Slow,” I remind him.

“Fuck off.”

Coach’s whistle shrieks before I can properly celebrate. “Water!”

There is a God.

We scatter toward the benches, and I grab my bottle, dumping the first squeeze directly over my head.

“Sexy.”

I lower the bottle and find Carter watching me.

I run a hand through my wet curls and give him my best smolder. “You’ve always thought so.”

“Actually, I was talking about the giant sweat stain on your ass.”

My hand immediately goes behind me.

Carter laughs.

“Fuck you.”

“Addison gets mad when I do that.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He’s still smiling when he drops onto the bench beside me and reaches for his water.

There was a time when I would’ve taken that smile at face value and moved on.

Now I notice shit.

Which is inconvenient.

Like the way Carter still checks his phone more than most people. Not constantly. Not like before, when every buzz could mean something had happened to his mom. But enough that I notice when the screen lights up and his shoulders don’t tense anymore.

Addison.

Obviously.

I don’t need to see the name. The stupid little shift in his face gives him away.

“You’re disgusting.”

He doesn’t look up. “Jealous?”

“Deeply. I also want a woman who threatens to investigate me every time I piss her off.”

“She hasn’t threatened to investigate me in weeks.”

“Growth.”

He finally looks at me. “She made a spreadsheet about agents.”

I blink.

“Okay, never mind. She’s perfect.”

“She didn’t send it until I asked.”

“That actually is growth.”

Carter shakes his head, but he’s grinning again.

Good.

Across the court, Coach is talking to one of the assistants while a guy in a navy quarter-zip stands beside them. Older. Maybe forties. I recognize him vaguely, though I can’t remember from where.

He’s watching practice.

More specifically, he’s watching us.

I take another drink.

Carter follows my gaze.

“Scout.”

Of course he knows.

“For?”

“Chicago affiliate, I think. Could be G League.”

I make a noncommittal noise and screw the cap back onto my bottle.

My pulse does something stupid anyway.

There have been scouts around before.

It’s college basketball.

Guys watch games, talk to coaches, write things down like they’re solving international crimes instead of deciding whether twenty-two-year-olds can put a ball through a hoop professionally.

Doesn’t mean anything.

Not yet.

Carter nudges my knee with his. “He’s been watching you.”

I glance at him. “I know I’m hot, Harris. You don’t have to keep bringing it up.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

His expression doesn’t change.

Annoying.

I look toward the guy again and find him saying something to Coach while flipping a page on his clipboard.

There’s a little jolt low in my stomach.

Not nerves.

Okay, nerves.

Small ones.

Normal ones.

Because obviously I’d like to play after Crestwood. Anybody who says they’d turn down money to keep doing the thing they’ve loved since they were eight is either lying or has a much better backup plan than I do.

But I don’t need to make it A Thing.

Carter made basketball A Thing.

His dad made basketball a fucking hostage situation.

I’ve always liked that mine is simple.

Play well.

Have fun.

See what happens.

My phone starts vibrating against the bench.

MOM

Perfect timing.

I answer on speaker. “If this is about dinner Sunday, I already said yes.”

“It wasn’t, but since you brought it up, six o’clock.”

Carter snorts.

I turn away from him. “You know I have practice.”

“On Sunday?”

“Basketball waits for no man, Mom.”

“Your father said you’d say that.”

In the background, I hear Dad yell, “Tell him I’ve got the Civic apart and he’s putting it back together!”

I close my eyes.

My father owns Dawson Auto and has spent my entire life pretending the fact that I can identify approximately four things under a hood is a personal failure.

“I have a scholarship for basketball,” I remind them. “Not carburetors.”

“It’s not a carburetor!” Dad shouts.

“I knew that.”

Carter is trying very hard not to laugh.

Mom sighs the way only elementary-school teachers and women who raised boys can sigh. “Six, Alex.”

“I’ll be there.”

“And bring laundry if you have it.”

“I’m an adult.”

“So that’s a yes?”

I glance toward the laundry bag sticking halfway out of my open locker.

“Maybe.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

She hangs up.

Carter is still smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got a face.”

“My face is sitting here.”

“Addison says that exact shit.”

“That’s because Addison is smart.”

I kick his shoe.

He kicks mine back.

Coach whistles again and everyone starts moving, but Carter catches my arm before I stand.

“The scout thing,” he says quietly. “You should ask Coach.”

I stare at him.

Then I shrug. “If there’s something to know, he’ll tell me.”

“Alex.”

“What?”

“You want it.”

That shuts me up for approximately two seconds, which is impressive.

“I want a lot of things. There’s a redhead in my stats class—”

“I’m not talking about the redhead.”

“Her name is Lauren.”

“You don’t know her name.”

“I absolutely know her name.”

“You called her Rachel yesterday.”

Shit.

“Maybe she has two names.”

Carter gives me a look.

I hate that look.

It’s the same one he’s started giving people since everything happened. Like he spent years with nobody looking closely enough at him, and now he’s decided to overcorrect by staring directly into everybody else’s soul.

Terrible development.

“Go talk to Coach,” he says.

“Why are you so invested in this?”

“Because you spent most of last year worrying about everybody except yourself.”

There it is.

I look away.

Coach is already calling us back.

Saved by organized sports.

“Sounds fake.”

“Dawson—”

“Baseline!” Coach yells.

I slap both hands against my thighs and stand. “Sorry, babe. Duty calls.”

Carter mutters something behind me that sounds suspiciously like avoidant asshole, but I choose peace.

Mostly because he’s right and I don’t want to discuss it.

Practice turns into scrimmage, which means everything else disappears.

That’s the best part.

No scouts.

No future.

No Carter psychoanalyzing me because he got one functional relationship and now thinks he’s fucking Dr. Phil.

Just basketball.

The ball hits my palm and my body already knows what comes next.

Hunter cuts left.

Blocked.

Carter’s defender shifts half a step too far inside.

There.

I drive right, draw the second defender, then snap the pass behind my back.

Carter catches it clean and puts it up.

Nothing but net.

“Pretty,” he says as we turn back.

“The pass?”

“Me.”

“Debatable.”

Next possession, I take the shot myself.

Three.

Good.

The sound of the net is barely a sound at all, just that soft little shhh that somehow hits somewhere in my chest every single time.

God, I love this.

My legs know exactly where to go. My hands know how hard to push the ball into the floor. I know Hunter is going to cut before he does it because he always drops his shoulder first, and I know Carter wants the pass even though he’s pretending he doesn’t because his left hand twitches when he sees an opening.

I know this.

Not school.

Not whatever I’m supposed to do when college ends.

Not whether a scout standing beside Coach means anything or nothing or the beginning of something I’m apparently too chickenshit to admit I want.

This.

I know this.

Coach calls the scrimmage with our side up six.

Everyone is breathing hard, jerseys sticking to our backs. Carter bends over with his hands on his knees while I catch the ball rolling toward the sideline and spin it once on my fingertip.

The scout is gone.

I tell myself I don’t care.

Then Coach looks at me.

“Dawson.”

My stomach tightens.

“Yeah?”

He jerks his chin toward the tunnel. “Come see me tomorrow before practice.”

Carter straightens beside me.

I can feel him looking at me.

I keep spinning the ball.

“Am I in trouble?”

Coach’s mouth twitches. “Tomorrow.”

Then he walks away.

Well.

That’s not ominous at all.

“Don’t,” I tell Carter.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“My face is just sitting here.”

“Fuck both of you.”

He laughs, heading toward the locker room.

I stay on the court for another second, ball tucked against my hip, staring at the empty tunnel where Coach disappeared.

Tomorrow.

Scout.

Coach’s office.

Professional basketball.

The thought tries to grow teeth, so I shove it back where it belongs.

There’s no reason to get ahead of myself.

No reason to start imagining contracts or arenas or my parents sitting somewhere in the stands while Dad tells everyone within a ten-seat radius that I still don’t know what an alternator does.

Nothing has happened yet.

And basketball has always been the easy part.

The one thing in my life I’ve never had to question.