“Yeah, I know, but credit wise I was going into my senior year. I redshirted my first year, so I wanted to finish my degree, be the first person in my family to graduate,” I mumbled into the mic. Quickly realizing I was tarnishing my bad-as-hell rep, I added, “And I like you too much, Sonny. Why would I give up another year of listening to you and your stupid antics?”
“I’m not here to talk about your nice-boy tendencies or to flatter myself, although the compliment is welcome. Today, I have one thing on my mind, and it’s what the ladies all want too. Bad boys of ball,” he growled, lowering his voice for effect before continuing.
“Not since Jamel Lincoln and Trey Dawson graduated has there been a basketball player with as bad a rep as Steele’s. That’s right, Haftees, right here in the flesh across from me, I got your six-foot-four, blond, always-tan-and-beautiful stud muffin.”
A deep laugh rumbled through my chest at his introduction. Okay, so I was a bit of a ladies’ man, but why not? The girls were there for the taking, and I wasn’t about to question my luck. Although lately it was getting old, but I wasn’t about to share that little nugget with Sonny Boots.
Leaning into the mic again, I said, “And how is that y’all would know? Didn’t Trey and Jamel graduate four years ago, Sebastian?” I spent time drawing out Sonny’s real name, my Southern drawl making an appearance.
“Hey now, Steele, it’s Sonny to you. Sebastian’s for the ladies only. And for the record, I’m a fifth-year senior. You know that because I was working at this very station when your lanky, bony butt walked in here as a freshman, requesting some ‘good’ music. What was it you wanted to hear? The theme song from Grease?”
“I hear you making fun of me, Sebastian,” I said with a grin.
Truth was, Sonny had been a semi-decent friend to me since I landed in the middle of Ohio, plucked from the good life in sunny Florida. With only a smidge of a tan remaining and earbuds stuck in my ears, I’d wandered into the radio station when I first arrived, looking for someone to complain to about the shit music being played. Sonny was the intern back then, and now he was hanging on to every last vestige of college life, afraid of the real world.
A small piece of me got it. After all, I’d decided to wait to go pro until I finished my degree. Who the fuck does that?
“Bottom line, people, I like it here so much, I don’t want to leave.” Sonny shoved his hand through his signature unruly blond hair and playfully twirled his chair in a full circle for my benefit.
“That’s what they all say to me,” I said, then raised my voice to a falsetto. “I like it here so much.” Returning my voice to normal, I added, “. . . when they’re in my apartment.”
Sonny returned to the mic. “Listeners, I can see my good friend is going to torture me this evening, so let’s ask him about the upcoming season before I kick his behind out of here. He must have been with so many women, he’s starting to think like one.”
I rolled my eyes again, even though no one could see me but Sonny.
“So, Blane, what do you say? Are we looking at a ’ship this year?”
A nervous chuckle spilled from my mouth. The college sports analysts were predicting it, the magazines were printing it, and my coach was demanding it. Regardless, the thought of winning the national championship made my head throb and my stomach churn.
“Well, it’s a long road to the ’ship, but if any squad can do it, I think this year’s is the one. Trey Dawson’s brother, Mo, is starting at power forward, and we got Ashton Denube and myself in the back court along with the D-man, Demetri, at center, and Alex White at small forward. It’s a formidable lineup. We have to stay focused, healthy, and on target.”
“I forgot about my boy, Mo, also known as Moby Dick. I can say that . . . it’s like the book. So, did the coach rule out parties and girls?”
“No, he most certainly did not,” I lied. “We’re grown men. We make our own choices, and Conley trusts our shit.”
“You can’t say that on the air, Steele.”
“What? The coach knows we’re not giving anything up.” I wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. He was the head coach of a squad full of hooligans and womanizers.
“I meant s-h-i-t. You need to say crap or something else, my man. As for the coach, I’m sure babysitting all of you gets old after a while.”
“We’re all very good boys,” I said with a wink.
Just then, the door to the studio flung open and a short, curvy young thing with a headful of black curls swore like a sailor when she toppled over a tower of CDs and a lamp.
“Fuck me. Sorry about that,” she muttered through clenched teeth as she righted the lamp.
Sonny ran his hand like a knife across his neck, motioning for her to shut up.