And mine.
“I’m paid too much to pass all night.”
“You’re paid too much not to.”
Instead of falling into line, I got toe to toe with Coach and ripped him a new one.
I was frustrated over Nova and lost my head, letting it all out on someone I shouldn’t have.
He benched me in the fourth.
Didn’t stop me from getting in his face after the microphones were gone.
“Easy for you to tell us what we should be doing, to act like you’ve got all the answers,” I ground out. “Said yourself you’re no better than a pawn between James and Harlan. Either one of them could snap their fingers and fire you. Yeah, you’re real brave.”
I expected him to fine me on the spot.
Instead, he got quiet and walked out. After the game, in the visitors' locker room, I informed Chloe I wasn’t going to do media.
“You weren’t invited,” she replied briskly.
Nova and I haven’t spoken in days, and it’s been fucking terrible.
Half a dozen texts to check in on her, none answered.
I don’t hate that she found out, but it’s how she found out. I was planning to tell her about my deal with Harlan.
But only after I worked out a way to tell Harlan—and everyone—about us.
My head falls back against the leather seat. Emotions claw at my chest, raking talons that reach beneath my ribs to the places I can’t protect with ego or reputation or silence.
She’s hurting, and I can’t fix it.
Not if she won’t answer my texts.
Not when I’m on a plane a thousand miles away.
I need her to understand I wasn’t trying to manipulate her.
A year ago, all I wanted was for my knee to hold up.
It’s been solid for weeks.
So, why does it feel like my life is crumbling?
“I fucked up,” I say.
Miles shifts forward, glancing around the plane. The rest of the team is locked in one-on-one conversations, or sleeping, or watching videos, or listening to music.
“The guys will give you another chance,” he says.
“It’s not the guys I’m worried about,” I admit.
We’re practicing the next day, running plays with the assistant, when Miles calls out, “Where’s Coach?”
I glance at the clock in the corner of the gym. It’s not like him to be late.
I head to the bleachers and grab my phone from my bag. No messages. I punch in his contact.
It rings.
Again.
Voicemail picks up.
“Get your ass here, old man, I’m doing your job and mine. You’re gonna want to take a picture because it’s not happening again.” I click off and rejoin practice.
It’s not an apology, but it’s halfway there.
I crossed a line with Coach. Took shit out on him that wasn’t his fault.
I’ll make it up to him today.
Jayden and the assistant coaches run the team through some drills while I watch.
A few minutes later, Rookie pulls up, looking past me.
“Clay.”
The voice at my back is familiar, but the name isn’t. Harlan never calls me Clay.
I straighten, immediately alert. Something’s wrong.
“What happened?”
The hospital is a mass of hallways and hurrying staff and beeping equipment. My steps overtake the nurse leading us in.
Jay and Miles and Atlas look at me with hollow eyes. Behind them is a row of assistant coaches.
I hate hospitals. My little sister spent too much time in one, and I couldn’t do anything for her. I threw myself into my game because living with the idea that I had no impact was insufferable.
We all wait for an hour.
Two.
Harlan arrives looking tired already. “Thank you all for coming. We don’t have the full details, but we understand Coach’s car went off the road and hit a tree late this afternoon. The doctors believe it may have resulted from a cardiac incident, but as a result, he’s sustained significant trauma to multiple systems. I understand how much Coach means to you. He’d appreciate knowing you were here.”
“He’ll know once he’s out,” Jay insists.
“That won’t be for some time. In the interim, you should go home and rest,” Harlan says.
One at a time, the guys peel off. Miles first, then Atlas. Rookie. Jayden. The coaching staff too.
I keep pacing the room. Still in my hoodie over a practice jersey, plus shorts, my Kobes on my feet.
“You won’t get to see him tonight.”
I look up to meet Harlan’s eyes.
He rests a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. My attention goes to my knee, the scar there.
Harlan retreats and returns a moment later with faded blue polyester folded in his hands. “At least put these on so you don’t freeze.”
Harlan leaves me with the scrubs. I drop them on the chair and do laps of the ward. People spot me, but the nurses don’t care.
I’m not famous here. I have no power.
I return to the nurse’s station. “Let me see him.”
“You can’t right now, Mr. Wade.” She frowns.
I rub a hand over my face. “I need to see him.”
She starts to argue, but another nurse clears her throat. “You can go in.”
I head into the room full of beeping machines. He’s lying in the bed, tubes and monitors hooked up everywhere. For once, he’s quiet.
There’s no chair, so I get one from the hallway and carry it in.
NOVA
The past week, I’ve been going to the wall.
Literally.
The mural has consumed my waking moments.
But when Brooke came home looking stricken and told me about Coach, I couldn’t sit at home.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the hospital. Through some emotional appeal, the nurses finally allow me in.
Clay is slouched in a tiny visitor's chair at his coach’s bedside.
In the bed, the man who always looked sprightly and energetic is still and pale.
The anger and betrayal I felt seem small compared to the scene in front of me.
I rest a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Hi.”
He doesn’t respond.
I start to pull back, but Clay’s hand covers mine. “Hi.”
“How is he?” I ask.
“Not good.” The words are barely audible.
“How long have you been here?”
“Since practice. Harlan tried to get me to leave.” When his hand falls away, I miss it.
“Harlan was right.” It’s after midnight.
“It was my fault,” he goes on as if he didn’t hear me.
My arms wrap around my body. I’m only now realizing I didn’t put on a coat before coming over.
“You weren’t driving.”
“No, but I gave him hell the other day.”
“Your words didn’t give him a heart attack, or steer him off the road. No one’s that powerful. Not even Clayton Wade.”
He tilts his head up to look at me.
I’m still upset with him, but the downward spiral is familiar. Clay seems intent to stay here all night, which won’t help anyone.
I make an executive decision. “We’re leaving. Give me your keys.”