I Canceled Your Free Ride

The whistle blew, ending the scrimmage, and Carol and I reached Damon at the exact same second. I held out a chilled BodyArmor—the strawberry-banana flavor he always drank after running full-court drills. Carol, who had wandered into the gym twenty minutes earlier in platform sneakers, casually handed him a lukewarm bottle of tap water from the scorers' table. Damon didn't even look in my direction. He reached straight past my outstretched hand, took Carol’s bottle, and drained it in three long, careless gulps. I stood there frozen, the condensation from the cold plastic bottle dripping onto my sneakers, my head bowed so low my neck ached. My thumb picked at the seam of my jeans just to keep from trembling. Dean, our team captain, caught the humiliation burning off me. Stepping up with an easy, easygoing grin, he reached out to take the sports drink from my fingers. "If Damon doesn’t want it, pass it over," Dean said, tossing a towel over his shoulder to break the silence. "I just sweated out half my body weight. I’m dying over here." I let the bottle slip toward Dean’s fingers. Before Dean could get a firm grip, Damon lunged forward, ripped the bottle out of his hand, and slammed it straight into the industrial trash can by the bench. The sharp "clang" echoed through the rafters of the court. He had always been like this. Everything he did was entirely on his own terms—rash, impulsive, utterly indifferent to my dignity. He never stopped to consider what the onlookers would think of me, nor did he bother glancing down to see the quiet, hollow disappointment written all over my face. Right then, in the sour, humid air of the gym, something finally snapped into place. A love kept buried in the dark wasn’t a romance. It was just a slow execution. … Dean dropped his casual smile. His expression went flat and cold. "That's over the line, Damon." "Alana already gave it to me," Dean said, his voice dropping an octave. "What right do you have to trash it?" Dean turned to me, his tone softening with genuine apology. "Damon’s just being an idiot. Ignore him." He bent down, unbothered, and pulled the cold bottle out from the clean plastic liner of the can. I reached out and touched Dean's forearm. "Don't. It was in the trash. It’s dirty." Dean cracked the seal with a firm twist and took a swig. "It’s fine. Cap wasn’t broken, which means it’s clean." Damon, sitting on the bench untying his high-tops, let out a harsh, dry laugh. "How do you know it wasn't opened before?" Damon scoffed, not looking up. "You really trust her that much? Aren’t you worried she slipped something into it just to mess with you?" He left the accusation floating in the air, vague and toxic. The bench instantly erupted into hushed, eager murmurs. "Wait, did Alana pull something like that on Damon before?" "Man, no wonder Damon always acts so cold toward her." "Seriously. Damon can be an asshole, but he doesn't usually humiliate people in public like that." "Except with Alana. He’s never once given her a straight smile." "He won't take a drink from her, and he won't even let her touch his personal basketballs." I stood rooted to the hardwood, my tongue like lead. I couldn't even form words to defend myself. Because on the surface, everything they were saying was true. Damon had told me he didn’t want the team gossiping that I had only gotten the manager position because I was sleeping with a starting guard. So whenever anyone else was around, he treated me like air. He never spoke to me first. He brushed past me without eye contact. To the rest of the roster, we were strangers. And now, thanks to his performance, they thought he legitimately despised me. "If we’ve got someone on staff who might tamper with drinks," one of the freshmen whispered, "isn't that kind of a risk for the whole squad?" The gym went completely quiet. Dean’s hand froze around the bottle. He cut his eyes across the bench with a look so sharp it silenced the room before anyone else could chime in. Carol, leaning against the scorer’s table, clearly smelled blood. She arched a manicured brow at me, tossing her hair with a delicate, performative pout. "Captain, you really should be careful," she purred, her eyes dancing with quiet malice. "The regional championship starts next week. If something happens to you, where does that leave the rest of the guys?" Blood rushed to my temples, my ears ringing with indignation. "I bought that drink five minutes ago at the campus convenience store. If you don't believe me, we can pull the register cameras right now. I haven't touched the seal." Carol didn’t flinch. She just gave an innocent, airy shrug. "I was only looking out for Dean. If you’ve got a clear conscience, why are you getting so defensive?" A lie spreads across an entire campus before the truth even laces up its shoes. I took half a step toward her, ready to demand she explain herself, but Dean’s hand caught my wrist, firm and steadying. "I believe you," Dean said quietly. He turned his gaze toward Carol, his jaw set. "Without proof, that’s slander. Today was a closed practice for rostered players and staff. You weren't invited. I’m going to have to ask you to leave the facility." Damon stood up abruptly, kicking his duffel bag aside with an irritated sigh. "It was just a joke, Dean. Do you have to turn everything into a federal case?" Damon ran a hand through his damp hair. "Carol’s here because I asked her to come. I talked to Coach Griffin earlier this week about bringing on an additional student manager. Coach cleared it. As of today, Carol is part of the staff." My head snapped toward him. Damon met my eyes for a fraction of a second—cool, unapologetic, utterly indifferent—before looking away. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out with numb fingers. An email notification sat on the screen from Coach Griffin: "Based on staff evaluation and team workload, the primary duties for student manager will transition to Carol effective immediately." A spatter of applause broke out among the bench players. Someone whistled. Protocol dictated that I smile, clap my hands, and welcome our newest team member. But my facial muscles felt carved out of stone. The best I could offer was a tight, grotesque grimace that felt closer to weeping than smiling. Six months ago, when the athletic department posted the opening for team manager, over forty students had applied. I had been terrified of failing the interview. I remember lying in Damon’s bed, resting my chin on his bare chest, begging him to put in a good word for me with the coaching staff. "If I get the job, we’ll get to see each other every single afternoon." He had shut me down without hesitation. "If everyone pulls strings, the athletic department will end up packed with useless eye candy," he’d said coldly. "If you don’t think you're qualified, don't submit your résumé." Desperate to prove I wasn't just decorative weight, I stayed up late studying equipment logs, memorized inventory protocols, and pushed through three rounds of interviews on my own merit. I won the position fair and square. And the second I got it, he laid down the law: we had to act like strangers. "You got in on your own," he had reasoned, slipping his arm around my waist in the dark of my dorm room. "If I tell everyone you’re my girlfriend, they’ll assume you cheated the system. They’ll resent you." Back then, I was foolish enough to think he was protecting my reputation. My heart had swelled with gratitude. Until today. Today, he walked Carol through the front door as an unvetted personal favor. No interviews. No vetting. No qualifications. And not a single player questioned it. No one sneered. No one whispered that she was taking the easy road. Instead, one of the forwards slapped his knee and grinned. "To celebrate having Carol on board, what do you say we hit the steakhouse downtown? Captain, on the department card?" The athletic budget covered one team meal every Friday evening. Dean gave a slight nod. "Sure." With the captain's approval, declining would have made me look bitter. Before heading over, I stayed behind in the equipment room to collect the practice balls, wipe down the tactical boards, and lock up the med kits. By the time I finished shower duty and changed into a clean sweater, the guys were already piling into the department's twelve-passenger van out by the curb. I hurried down the steps and grabbed the door handle. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and grunted. "Van's at capacity. Last one out has to catch their own ride." The van seated thirteen people, including the driver. With the twelve rostered players and myself, it had always been an exact fit. With Carol sitting inside, I was the one left over. My fingers slowly tightened around the cold metal of the door handle. I looked instinctively toward the third row. Damon was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Carol. Their heads were tilted close together, Damon whispering something that made her giggle into her sleeve. Noticing the engine idling, Damon raised his voice over the chatter. "Who was the last one trying to get in? Be an adult, step back, and don't hold up the entire car." A sour sting hit the back of my throat. I stepped back, let go of the handle, and let the heavy sliding door roll shut. I stood on the curb, the exhaust washing over my shins as the van pulled out into the evening traffic, red taillights blurring into long streaks. I looked down at my phone. The message thread with Damon was dead quiet. He didn't text to check if I made it onto another ride. He didn't ask if I even knew the address of the restaurant. A minute later, Dean sent a pin drop to the team group chat, tagging my handle: "Call an Uber on that location, Alana. Send me the receipt, I’ll expense it." I tapped out a message telling him I would pass, but before I could hit send, a direct message popped up from Damon. It was a screenshot of a ride booking with a license plate and a driver's name. "Car’s arriving in two minutes. Move faster next time instead of dragging your feet. You always end up lagging behind." Carol was technically an assistant manager now, but she trailed after Damon like an accessory, leaving every single piece of physical labor to me. That was why I had lagged behind. My chest hitched with suffocating frustration. I dialed Damon’s number, desperate to confront him, to demand why he was doing this. The call went straight to voicemail after one ring. Then a text arrived: "Getting a little motion sick in the back row. Can't talk. Just get to the restaurant." When the rideshare dropped me off, the entire squad had already claimed their seats around the large round table. There were only two chairs left open—one directly across from Damon, and one right beside him. I thought, foolishly, that he had saved the seat next to him for me. I walked over, pulling out the chair, when Carol stepped back into the dining room from the hallway, shaking her wet hands dry. "That’s my seat," she said smoothly. I paused, realizing too late that her words were directed at me. Carol crossed her arms, a smug, amused smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "You don't believe me? Before I used the restroom, I unwrapped the silverware and poured my water." I looked down. The paper sleeve on the chopsticks had been torn off, and the water glass was half-empty. Still, a stubborn fire flared in my ribs. I looked directly into Damon’s eyes. "What if I want to sit here tonight?" Damon didn't look up from his phone. "Don't make a scene, Alana. First come, first served. If you want prime seating, show up on time next time." A couple of the bench players exchanged knowing glances and leaned in close. "Is she serious? Can’t Alana see Damon wants Carol next to him?" "They’re practically dating. Why does she have to wedge herself in like an awkward third wheel?" "Honestly, can’t blame Damon for being short with her. If someone lacked that much social awareness around me, I’d lose my temper too." The blood surged to my head, overriding every shred of caution I had built up over two years. The words burst out before I could stop them: "Damon and I are the ones who—" "Smash." The thick ceramic water cup in Damon’s hand slipped, striking the edge of the lazy susan and shattering into three jagged pieces on the table. "Sorry," Damon muttered, shaking water from his knuckles. "My hand slipped." The cold reality hit me like a bucket of ice water. The words dried in my throat. My back broke out in a sudden, freezing sweat. Two years of hiding our relationship in dark dorm rooms and deserted stairwells. To blurt it out now, at the bitter end, when it was already rotting? It wouldn't redeem me. It would only make me look pathetic, desperate, and undignified. And Damon had smashed a glass on purpose just to shut me up. If I kept pushing, it wasn't pride I was defending; it was just humiliation. One of the guys at the other end leaned forward, chewing on an appetizer. "You and Damon are what? Don't leave us hanging, Alana, I’m gonna lose sleep wondering." "Knock it off," Dean barked, throwing a sharp glare across the table. He pulled out the empty chair on his right side and motioned to me. "Alana, there’s plenty of room over here. Come sit." "Okay," I whispered. I walked over and sat down beside Dean. Dean picked up a teapot, rinsed my bowl and cup with hot tea to sanitize them, and set them down in front of me with a soft, apologetic look. "I was on a call with Coach on the van. I didn't realize the driver left you behind. Next time something like that happens, I’ll stay behind and split a ride with you. It’s not safe for you to wait on the curb alone after dark." I shook my head faintly. "You don't need to do that." Once I resigned, the van would have plenty of room for twelve players and their one new manager. Throughout the meal, Damon played the doting protector. He poured Carol’s tea, peeled her grilled shrimp, and slid the best cuts of beef onto her plate. I stared at the white tablecloth, realizing with a dull ache that I couldn't remember the last time Damon and I had eaten a meal like this together. Ever since I joined the team staff, the warmth between us had eroded into constant friction, hidden under a veneer of professional distance. But my entire reason for applying had been so simple: I just wanted to be closer to him. The dinner tasted like cardboard. Damon glanced my way several times across the rotating table. The moment the check arrived, my phone lit up with a text from him: "Don't leave yet after dinner. It’s pitch black outside and you shouldn't walk back alone. I'll walk you back to your dorm." I typed back a single word: "Okay." Even if we were ending it, it deserved to be said to his face. When the group stepped out onto the sidewalk under the cool evening air, I hung back, waiting for him to break away from the crowd. Carol suddenly stepped forward, catching Damon’s sleeve. "Damon, could you walk me home? My street gets really sketchy at night, and I’m terrified of walking it alone." I stopped dead in my tracks, five yards away. Damon frowned slightly. "Ask one of the other guys." He glanced back at the team, but the guys just smirked, shoving each other's shoulders and calling out excuses about early gym sessions or girlfriends waiting, scattering down the block within seconds. Damon hesitated for three beats. Then he pulled out his phone, his thumbs moving quickly. A message hit my screen: "Her apartment isn't far. Wait for me here. I’ll walk her back and come straight to get you." I looked at the text. And like an idiot, I believed him. I sat down on the low concrete planter outside the restaurant, wrapping my jacket tighter around my chest, watching the headlights sweep past. Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. Dean pushed open the glass doors of the restaurant, tucking his wallet into his back pocket. When he saw me still sitting in the wind, his brows drew together in disbelief. "Everyone left half an hour ago," Dean said, stepping down the stairs. "Why are you still sitting out here in the cold? Did you need to talk to me about something?" I stood up quickly, dusting off the back of my coat. "I’m waiting for Damon. He said he had something to tell me after he walked Carol home." I still kept our relationship locked behind my teeth. Dean’s face darkened instantly. "Carol rented an off-campus studio on the south side of town! That’s an hour each way by bus! He told you to sit here and wait for him?" A violent chill shot through my veins, making my teeth chatter. I looked down at my phone. Thirty-five minutes had ticked by. "He's completely lost his mind," Dean said, his jaw tightening with genuine anger. "No matter what issues he has with you, leaving a girl on a street corner in the middle of the night is unhinged. My Uber’s two minutes out. Come on, I’m taking you home." In the backseat of Dean's car, watching the streetlamps blur against the cold glass, I opened Damon’s chat window and typed four words: "We're done. It's over." Damon didn't reply. He didn't text to ask if I had made it home. He didn't text to check if I was still waiting on that concrete bench. Maybe it was the bitter wind, or maybe my body simply gave up, but by midnight, a fever began creeping through my limbs. I spent the night tossing and turning in a sweat-drenched, delirious haze. At seven the next morning, my phone blared on the nightstand. It was Dean. "Alana, aren't you coming in today?" Dean sounded hurried. "Where did you stash the new game uniforms that arrived Tuesday? I've torn through the equipment locker and can't find them." My head felt like it was packed with wet cotton. I tried to explain the shelf location, but my voice was cracked and hoarse, and Dean couldn't locate the box. "We need them for the media shoot this morning," Dean said, sounding apologetic. "Can you come down for ten minutes? I know you're technically off duty, and I shouldn't be asking this—" "I'll be there," I mumbled. Dean had protected me yesterday; he had paid for my cab and bought my breakfast more times than I could count. I couldn't leave him hanging. I forced myself out of bed, threw on an oversized hoodie, and dragged my trembling legs to the fieldhouse locker room. I climbed the small step stool in the storage closet, hauled the heavy cardboard box of uniforms off the top shelf, and set it on the bench. Just as I turned around, Carol walked in, folding her arms. "Captain Dean said once you found the jerseys, you should hand them to me," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "After all, you're not the manager anymore. You don't have clearance for the practice floor." The fever made my joints throb with a dull, sickening ache. I didn't have the energy to fight with her. I picked up the stack of heavy, double-stitched mesh jerseys—all fifteen of them—and dumped the bundle into her waiting arms. Carol hadn't anticipated the weight. Her elbows buckled, her balance faltered, and the momentum pulled her down. She tumbled backward onto the rubber matting, the pile of uniforms spilling across her lap. Instead of getting up, she looked up at me, her eyes filling with instant, theatrical tears. "Did you do that on purpose?" she cried out, her voice pitching high enough to carry into the hallway. "You knew I didn't have a solid grip before you let go!" The locker room door swung open with a bang. Damon stepped in, his eyes immediately landing on Carol sprawled on the floor amidst the jerseys, looking small and battered. "Carol was just trying to take some of the workload off your plate," Damon snapped, storming across the room, his eyes blazing at me. "And you resort to bullying her?" A bitter, delirious laugh escaped my throat. "She couldn't hold thirty pounds of fabric and fell over her own feet. How is that my fault?" Carol reached up, clutching the sleeve of Damon’s warm-up jacket, sniffling softly. "Don't yell at Alana, Damon... It’s my fault. I took her job, so it makes sense that she hates me. But... but I think I twisted my ankle on the bench leg. Can you take me to the clinic?" Damon looked up at me. His eyes were completely vacant of warmth. The look he gave me was the look you give a stray dog that snapped at a child. "Someone as petty and small-minded as you," Damon said, every syllable laced with venom, "was always going to be a cancer to this program." A couple of other players wandered in through the open door, taking in the scene—Carol weeping on the floor, Damon hovering protectively, and me standing over them with my fists clenched. The disgust in their eyes was instantaneous. Damon made his decision on the spot, his voice loud enough for the hallway to hear. "Next week, after the regional championship, the department is funding that seven-day beach resort trip. I’m having Dean put Carol’s name on the roster instead of yours. Consider it your compensation to her. You owe her this." Without waiting for a response, he scooped Carol up into his arms and carried her out the door. I didn't yell. I didn't chase him down the corridor to argue. I stood there in the quiet storage room, pulled my phone from my pocket, and opened the chat with my father. "Dad," I typed, my fingers steady despite the fever. "Cancel the corporate sponsorship for the basketball team’s beach trip." Damon had clearly forgotten. The luxury retreat they all thought was an athletic department perk had never been funded by the school. It was funded by my father. And I didn't owe any of them a damn thing.