She’s the daughter of one of the biggest rock stars the world has ever known, and she’s married to another of them. She also sang the national anthem at one of the playoff games in LA this year.
“I heard you were amazing on Broadway. I hope you’re returning someday?”
“I’m on a stage break since my daughter’s two. I almost miss the days of eight performances a week.”
We laugh as the barista prepares our drinks.
“I don’t have kids, but my sister is due any day with her first. A girl.” Excitement bubbles up as I think of the sono images Mari’s been sending me—from the first one of a tiny, hard-to-make-out form to the latest, which was so distinct I could imagine reaching out to touch her and having her wrap a tiny fist around my finger. “It’s hard because she’s in Colorado. I’m still hoping to be there for the birth, but things have been complicated here.”
As in I have no idea where we’ll be living until Clay decides what his plan is.
“You had a lot of basketball in your feed. You must be a fan,” Annie says.
“My boyfriend plays.”
“Pickup?”
“For LA.”
Annie nods knowingly as she takes her drink and leads the way toward a corner table in the window, turning her back on the street. Maybe to get the sunlight or the privacy.
These two remind me of my friends in Denver. They’re not impressed by people who are “A Big Deal,” either because they are too or because they just don’t give a fuck about labels and follower counts. Which is a relief because I have a hard time guarding against people who are.
“It was so great when they won this year,” Annie says. “I follow a little, and we sit in one of the boxes from time to time. Which one is your boyfriend, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Clayton Wade.”
They exchange a look.
“It must have been hard to watch his team win from the sidelines. But he still gets a ring.”
“True. I just wish I knew where he was going to be next year,” I say.
“He doesn’t have a contract?”
I shake my head, feeling foolish.
“Negotiations are always hard,” Annie says kindly.
We moved here for basketball, but Clay hasn’t talked to me about his career since championships.
I sip my latte—it is good—and try to ignore the unease that’s been the dominant feeling in my stomach for weeks.
Annie picks up her phone, types away on it, then hits a button with a flourish. “There. I’m one of your bazillion followers.” She grins. “Tyler and I are having a party this weekend. You should come. It’s less exercise than barre class, but I can promise stellar beverages. Some of them a little harder than what’s in here.” She taps the wall of her mug.
My chest expands with hope. It feels like I haven’t found a rhythm since the championship. Since we moved here, really. The prospect of new friends is energizing.
“Thanks for the invitation. I’ll talk to Clay.”
“If he doesn’t want to come”—Annie flips her hair—“you should come anyway.”
CLAY
“I’m going to destroy you,” I inform the guy standing next to me.
“Impossible. You can’t beat that.”
I line up my shot, eyeing my target. Shift my weight. Pull back. And swing.
Crack.
The golf ball launches toward the horizon.
My three companions watch the arc of the ball. It lands in the center of the fairway.
“You need a backup job, this is it.” Tony, a software entrepreneur, claps a hand on my bicep.
We shift into our golf cart, me in the driver’s seat, the other two guys getting in theirs. Our caddies look after our bags as we take off toward the fairway.
We finish putting and talk about summer vacation. Everyone seems to have spent theirs in Greece or at their lake houses.
“What about you?” one of the others asks me.
“You kidding? He’s on every billboard in town,” Tony declares.
Since we won the championship, I’ve been booking more endorsement deals than ever.
Ironic seeing as how I didn’t contribute a single point in the postseason.
But people’s perception matters more than the truth.
“Can we get a pic?” Tony asks as we finish up our eighteen holes.
After I agree and get in the shot, he takes off his ball cap, turns the phone camera toward us, and clicks.
“I’ll text it to you,” he promises.
My phone buzzes for the tenth time.
“You need to get that?” Tony prompts.
“Nah.”
Except when I glance at the phone, it’s Nova.
Nova: Dee texted me about your contract.
Fuck. Dee’s persistent like that.
Clay: She shouldn’t be bothering you.
Nova: Seems like she’s doing her job. What time will you be home?
Clay: Not sure. There’s a dinner after.
I sit at a round table and make small talk I used to hate and drink until the buzz takes up residence in the back of my brain.
I’m on my third beer when a familiar face approaches.
“Hey, man. How’s it going?” He’s one of the young guys from the LA team. I clap him on the back, and he does the same to me. “It’s been a wild ride, right? Can’t wait to get my ring. Bet you’ve been dreaming of it for weeks. I know I have.”
When I sleep, I can’t seem to dream of anything.
That’s the problem.
I put on a good face, act like the guy who’s a champion.
None of it felt the way it was supposed to. There was no rush of satisfaction, no fulfillment that I’ve achieved my lifelong dream.
I got to the top of the mountain and found nothing there. Only the conviction deepening each day that I didn’t earn it.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
I head for the doors without saying goodbye to the organizers. My car stays in the parking lot as I get into a limo and it pulls away.
Tony sent me the picture. When I look at it for the first time, it takes me aback. He looks comfortable in his green polo. I’m wearing sunglasses and a black polo, my tattoos patterning my arms.
Is this who I am now?
There are options—teams that would sign me if I wanted to stay in the game even on the chance my knee doesn’t come back. But I hate the idea of being some kind of favor, a legacy whose only contribution is some kind of aura of championship, like stale cologne that aged badly.
I could announce my retirement, but that future is even more bleak.
The fence swings wide, and the limo pulls toward the house. It’s dark, the outside lights by the gate unlit.
“Let me drop you at the—” The limo pulls to an abrupt stop midway to the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wade. I think I drove into your garden.”
There’s no mistaking the squish of tires on the turf as he backs onto the asphalt once again and navigates around the plot of flowers Nova added in front of the house this spring.
I’m not ready to go in.
Alone, I don’t have to lie about the way I feel.