Frustrated with the lack of options in these dating streets, a desperate woman begins church hopping, searching for a husband, but finds herself at a crossroads when she meets the perfect guy but there’s one small hang up - he’s too SHORT.
Chapter 25 - Press Towards the Mark
“You reach, I teach,” Asia says, sliding past Iesha so fast I almost feel the breeze from the crossover.
The girls holler, slapping the wall like it’s a sideline drumline. It’s only three-on-three, but the intensity in this trailer is no joke. Every possession sounds like life or death—the thump of sneakers, the slap of hands, the squeak of bodies colliding in tight space.
“Check up,” Asia calls, smacking the ball back to Iesha with the confidence of somebody twice her age.
“Oh, you trying to show off in front of company, huh?” Iesha mutters, tugging at her laces like she just remembered she’s got a reputation to defend. She straightens, crouches, and smirks. “That’s alright. The Bible says the older women gotta teach the younger. Today’s lesson? Stay humble.”
The floor creaks under my sneakers as I shift for a better view, careful not to get clipped by flying ponytails and rogue elbows. The court might be raggedy, but the way these girls are moving, you’d swear ESPN should be broadcasting live.
And right in the middle of it all? Asia.
That girl moves like somebody wound her up and forgot to press pause. Braids whipping, arms loose but precise, she splits a double team and pulls up for a jumper that splashes like butter. And guarding her? None other than First Team All-SEC Defense three years running, Iesha “Ballhawk” Johnson. Except right now, the legend looks like she needs Bengay and a prayer.
Asia has her on roller skates. Iesha’s teeth are gritted, crouched like she’s defending her rent money, but Asia’s too smooth. She’s having fun. It’s low-key hilarious watching one of my best friends get cooked like this.
Beside me, Ava watches stone-faced, arms folded across her chest. She’s got that “scout mode” posture locked in—cool, unbothered, like she’s allergic to excitement. She only dropped in because her team plays the Comets tomorrow night, but knowing Ava, she’ll never admit she was curious about what I’ve been hyping.
And not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been working with Asia for months, and it shows. She’s improved. Improved mightily. Some of it’s raw talent, sure, but the rest? Yours truly of course.
“So?” I ask, tilting my head toward the court.
Ava doesn’t answer right away. She watches Asia cut backdoor, fake out two defenders, and flip in a layup like it’s nothing. Finally, she says flatly, “She looks good.”
“Good?” I give her the sharpest side-eye I can conjure. “That’s all you got? She’s out here cooking your girl Iesha like Sunday dinner and you say ‘good’?”
Ava smirks but doesn’t bite. “I want to see her in a real game before I decide anything.”
There it is. Classic Ava. Never hype, never moved. If a meteor hit the court right now, she’d probably just nod and say, Decent footwork.
I roll my eyes. “A game. Okay.”
“She’s a little young, Whitney. The camp’s got some of the top players in the country. A couple already-committed All-Americans. It’s not rec ball—we’re talking killers. Girls who’ll take her lunch and eat it in her face.”
I fold my arms, mirroring her. “Trust me. She can handle it.”
Ava hums, like she’s rolling my words around in her head but refusing to let them stick. Then, like she can’t stand lingering on the subject, she pivots.
“Anyway,” she says, “I didn’t come here for that.”
Ava doesn’t waste time with small talk. She pulls a folded paper from her jacket and hands it to me like it’s a contract.
“Tournament invite.”
I open it. For a second, my chest tightens. It’s the same regional I missed the year I tore my ACL. That was supposed to be my year. My ticket. And there, printed in black and white: Whitney James, Head of Operations.
I force a smile. “Looks fancy. Do I get a whistle with it, or…?”
Ava’s face doesn’t move. I swear, this woman acts like emotions are beneath her pay grade.
She nods at the invite. “We need trainers. Girls trust you. They’ll listen. And my goal is to ramp this up to ten camps a year. I need people I trust.”
There it is. The sales pitch dressed up as a favor.
I tuck the paper into my bag. “I’ll think about it.” Which in Whitney James language means: probably not, but I’ll pray about it so I sound holy.
“And Whit,” Ava adds, her voice low but firm, “it pays well. Really well.”
“Ava…” I start, but before I can land on a sentence, the ball rolls our way. A divine timeout.
Instead of picking it up myself, I wave. “Asia! Come here a sec.”
She jogs over, breathing heavy, sweat glistening. Her face lights up when she realizes who’s standing next to me.
“Hey kid,” Ava says coolly, “you nice. I’m—”
“I know who you are!” Asia blurts, hands flying to her chest. “You’re Ava Get Buckets Lawson….Best Combo Guard in the league….I’m a huge fan.”
Ava gives her a small nod, unreadable. Meanwhile, I swoop in before Asia faints from excitement.
“Me and Ava were just talking about how great you are,” I say. “And how she’s coming to check out your game Friday.”
Asia’s eyes nearly pop out her head. “For real? You’re coming?”
Ava’s lips part slightly—just enough to suggest yes without locking it in.
Asia doesn’t wait. She claps, spins, and hollers, “Oh I gotta get ready then!” before darting to the far hoop to start shooting like her life depends on it.
I shake my head. That girl stays extra.
As Asia runs off, the three of us—me, Ava, and Iesha—stand in this pocket of quiet by the wall. The trailer echoes with squeaks and shouts, but around us it feels like a bubble.
“I am,” Ava says suddenly.
I look at her. “You are what?”
“I am coming Friday.”
I shrug, lips twitching. “Marty Mar love the kids, right? And so does Asia.”
Ava narrows her eyes at me, then pulls four glossy tickets from her jacket pocket. “Since I’m going to her game, bring her by after. We’ll give her the treatment.”
My fingers twitch at the sight of those tickets—WNBA locker room access. The place I haven’t stepped foot in since my injury year. Do I really want to put myself through that? Just the thought makes my chest pinch. Being in that space would be like pressing on an old bruise I’ve never admitted still hurts.
“Mm-hmm,” I say lightly, masking the swirl inside me. “And how you know I don’t have plans?”
Ava ignores me, brushing her hands against her jeans like she’s closing the file. “Anyway—what y’all doing this weekend?”
I glance at Iesha. She glances at me. It’s that silent What had happened was look we’ve been trading since the youth lock-in months ago.
A Note From the Author
Thank you for reading "Coming up Short - Part 19."
I hope you found Whitney's journey as captivating to read as it was for me to write.
Here’s what’s next:
Part 20 of "Coming up Short" will land in your inbox next Thursday—you won’t want to miss what happens next.
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Thank you for joining me on this journey. Until next time,
—Sekou Browne