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And me is all I need.
I’m paired up against Johnson Bell, their power forward. He’s 6’7, a full two inches taller than me. He’s fast, and he’s strong, I’m not gonna lie. And most of all, he’s fucking cheap.
This motherfucker has been chippy with me all game. Chopping at my arms, charging me, slashing me with his uncut fingernails like he’s trying to embody the wolverine plastered across his chest.
He knows as well as I do that the head coach for the Kentucky Wildcats is sitting right in the front row at center court, watching us both.
Bell wants to be a star.
I already am a star. And I don’t give a fuck about that scout. I’m not going to Kentucky—or anywhere else on this continent.
But Iamgoing to win this game.
Bell takes the ball up the court, trying to drive past me. He does some fancy dancing with his giant feet in his vintage Jordans. It doesn’t faze me for a second—I keep my eye on his navel. Like my dad always says, you can’t go anywhere without your bellybutton.
Without even looking at the ball, I slap it away from him with my left hand, knocking it over to my right. I plow past him in the opposite direction, sprinting for the basket.
Their guard tries to block me, and I pull up short, sending a gorgeous arcing shot over his grasping fingers. I’m seven feet behind the three-point line and it doesn’t matter a bit—the ball drops through the net without even grazing the rim.
The roar of the crowd hits me like a slap. My eardrums vibrate. My heart thrums in my chest.
There’s no feeling quite like being adored by a thousand people at once.
The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the first half. I go jogging back across the court while my teammates slap me on the back. We’re up six points.
While my team hustles down the tunnel toward the locker room, the dance team is running in the opposite direction up to the court. Anna and I pass each other in the darkened hallway.
She’s all dolled up in her drill gear—blonde hair pulled up in a high pony, face painted and every inch of her sprayed with glitter. It always makes me laugh to see her in her dance clothes, since bright and tight is the opposite of what she wears normally.
She gives me a fist bump as we pass, saying in her low voice, “You’re gonna win, Leo.”
“I know.” I grin back at her.
Anna is my best friend. We grew up together, closer than siblings. Our fathers run this city together. Our mothers went through their pregnancies together, Anna and I born only two months apart. She’s older than me, which she loves to rub in my face every chance she gets.
Anna is the only person I’ve met more intense than me. Sometimes she scares me a little. But mostly she’s my balance, my rock.
Here at Preston Heights, I’m the fucking man.
Everybody wants a piece of me. They all want to sit by me or talk to me. All the girls want to date me.
They think they know Leo Gallo.
Anna is the only person who actually does.
She knows exactly who I am, and she doesn’t try to change a damn thing about me. Unlike my parents.
I saw my mom and dad sitting two rows behind the Kentucky coach, just a little to his right. They never miss my games. They’re always here, cheering me on. Celebrating my wins even more than I do.
It’s my dad who taught me how to play. He was a college star himself, before he and Uncle Cal got in some kind of scrap, and his knee got all fucked up.
Doesn’t mean he can’t still work me on the court, though. My dad taught me everything I know. He practiced with me, drilled me, taught me how to read my opponent, how to watch the flow of players on the court, how to outwit and outplay every guy I came up against. How to destroy them mentally and physically. How to beat them before I even made my first move.
My father’s pretty fucking smart. You don’t become the Don of Chicago any other way. And you sure as hell don’t stay there being stupid.
He taught me how to play basketball.
But what I actually want is for him to teach me how to run the world.
