Free The Cut by Wil Mara Page B

reminded him of the basement in his parents’ house, a place he tried to avoid as much as possible in his youth. It represented only one thing to him now—poverty.
    With his stomach moving in waves, he said, “Thanks.”
    Blumenthal held out the folder. “Here’s the information you’ll need. The cafeteria is on the first floor, by the southwest corner of the building. If you leave the campus, you have to let me or Gordon know.”
    â€œGordon’s the guy you were with downstairs?”
    â€œYeah, Gordon’s the guy. There’s a schedule for the coming week in there. Breakfast is tomorrow at six sharp. If you don’t show, you don’t eat.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œCurfew is eleven o’clock every night unless Coach Gray says otherwise.”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œAnd if you have any emergencies, you come to me. Emergencies only. If your girlfriend is in a bad mood and you want to go see her, that’s not an emergency.”
    â€œI’m married,” Corey replied. He was going to hold up his left hand and show the wedding ring, then decided against it when he noticed the guy didn’t have one of his own.
    â€œWelcome to the team.”
    â€œThanks.”
    He listened to the fading echo of Blumenthal’s footsteps until they disappeared, then he closed the door and opened all the windows.
    He had been in plenty of dorm rooms in his life, first as a student, then as a player, and he had never seen one so small or depressing. The walls were plain beige, the overhead light a cold, clinical fluorescent. The floor was hardwood, but filthy and rotting in one corner. Someone—the previous occupant, he assumed—had covered it with an area rug, but one so ratty it wasn’t suitable for fleas. There were two single beds on opposite sides, and they were dressed with plain, starchy-looking sheets that could’ve been stolen from a hospital. Reese wondered what kind of activities these mattresses had been subjected to through the years, then stopped himself. Completing the tableau was an aging yard-sale dresser and a tiny desk with a mismatched chair.
    He threw his bag onto the desk and went into the adjoining bathroom. It wasn’t much bigger than the elevator car, but the builders still managed to squeeze in a toilet, sink, and shower. At least it had been recently cleaned, as evidenced by the dizzying scent of bleach. The mirror had a small diagonal crack in the lower corner, and the tin shelves behind it were pitted with rust.
    He ran the water until it was frigid and splashed his face repeatedly. Each time he brought his hands down, he looked at his reflection and realized with some trepidation that, yes, he was still here.
    Back in the bedroom, he began unpacking. He crammed his clothes into the two lower drawers, leaving the top two for his forthcoming roommate—he prayed it was someone he knew. He’d also brought along a few items from home, a useful trick he had learned long ago. There were framed pictures of Jeanine and the kids, the alarm clock that usually sat on his nightstand, a small lamp, and two sets of bedsheets. He immediately went about changing the sheets, stuffing the coarse white ones underneath the bed. He would leave them there until he “checked out”—whenever that was.
    Once everything was in place, he stood in the center of the room, hands on hips, and surveyed his kingdom. It still looks and smells like a fucking dump, he thought, making a mental note to buy a can of air freshener as soon as possible.
    Then something else occurred to him, and it caused him to shudder violently. If I don’t make this team, my family could end up in a place just like this. The image of his children being stuck—no, imprisoned —in such a place was so awful that it temporarily robbed him of his composure, and for just a moment he felt the insatiable hands of grief reaching for him. His kids’