Page 7 of ClickBack

Graves gets me back to court two with his hand at my elbow, which is unnecessary unless he thinks I’m about to wander into traffic.

“You can let go.”

“You sure? You found your way?”

The event lead has a photographer waiting beside the sponsor banner. Behind her, the girl in bright glasses holds up a ball and points at the basket, reminding me I promised to watch. I go to her first.

“Three,” she says.

“Three what?”

“I made three since you left.”

“Let me see four.”

She plants her feet, checks whether I’m watching, then looks back at the rim. Her shot comes off clean and falls short. She turns toward her mother immediately.

“Look at me,” I tell her. “You had it lined up. You just need to get it there.”

She frowns. I point to her feet. “Same setup. Little more legs.”

The next one drops. Her mother cheers, and the girl tries to pretend she isn’t pleased until I hold out my hand. She slaps it hard enough to sting, then runs for her ball.

The photographer wants one with us together. This time I get behind the banner.

Graves stands where he can see the court and the walkway. Most people take one look at him and decide security. They aren’t wrong, but that’s only part of it. My agent can change a flight, my mother can need something in Maryland, and a sponsor can decide a handshake means I agreed to another hour. Graves sorts it before three different people find me with three different versions. He knows which commitments I made and which ones somebody made up on my behalf. He also knows when I’m the problem.

Right now, apparently, I’m the problem.

“Camera,” he says.

I look toward the lens instead of the party room across the way.

We get through two groups of kids and a man who wants to talk about the season while his daughter waits with a certificate. I ask her name, put my arm behind her shoulders, and make sure she gets the picture. Her father starts another question. Graves steps in with the event lead before it becomes an interview.

I’m grateful until he brings me my phone.

“Cam.”

“He leave a message?”

“Several. You’re popular.”

I silence the phone. The season is over for me, but the conversations about it aren’t. One guaranteed year left, a player option after that, and a front office that already tried to move me once. Cam has questions I don’t feel like answering with a sponsor’s logo behind my head. Across the court, a boy has my number on his back. I keep noticing him. He has no interest in whether my salary works in a trade, and I’d like a few more minutes of being the player he came here to see.

“I’ll call him.”

Graves looks at the phone, then at me. “Put a time on that.”

“When we’re done.”

“Better.”

He isn’t my father. He doesn’t try to be. He does, however, enjoy the hell out of being right on a salary.

The kids get a break while the staff sets up the awards. I take mine near the arcade, where the birthday boy is explaining to a basketball machine that its manufacturing is unacceptable.

“This side is cheating,” Zion says.