“Because there are ghosts here. Ghosts of who you were. Where you’ve been. What you did in these halls, with these people. But after you’ve climbed the mountain, the most frightening thing in the world is finding yourself back at basecamp looking up.”
I shift an arm across the back of the bench, watching a kid skate with who looks like his brother. The younger one falls, waits to be picked back up.
“When I was young, all I cared about was being the best,” I say. “Now I look at a guy like Kyle, and I know I don’t want to be that. But I don’t want to keep going until my body fails more than it works. I don’t want to be remembered as weak.”
“You think Jordan or Kobe would’ve achieved what they did if they were looking for approval? They wouldn’t have dared. They wouldn’t have risked.” Coach sniffs, tugging his toque down on his head. “We can’t control how people remember us, Wade. We can only control how we remember us. If you go out fighting in a way you can respect, that’s enough.”
I’m still turning that over when a black car pulls up in the parking lot nearby. Security guards step out.
“Come on,” I tell Coach, rising. “This is your ride.”
We cross to the parking lot, and a guard holds the door.
I nod for Coach to get in first, and I shift into the spacious back seat after him.
Inside the limo is a huge case and another guard. The guard opens the case, and inside is the championship trophy.
Coach’s eyes glass over as he inches closer, perching on the edge of the seat. His legs shake from the effort.
“The hell is that?”
“You wanted a championship,” I say. “I brought you one.”
The two-foot-high prize features a life-sized basketball, all of it gold. It’s been held by so many legendary teams.
Coach lifts a hand, tugging off his glove as if to brush a finger over the shiny face of the trophy, but he hesitates.
His eyes tear up. “I can’t.”
There’s a superstition around touching it if you haven’t won.
I take his hand and press his palm to the mirrored surface.
“We’ll do it together.”
26
NOVA
“I expected you to have better stamina, Sporty Spice,” Brooke calls as we head down the trail together. “Especially after three days in Aruba with Clay.”
There’s not enough oxygen to keep my legs pumping, not to mention for any extraneous movements.
I grin anyway. “Still recovering.”
Aruba was amazing.
We swam and snorkeled, ate amazing food, posed with flamingos on a private island.
We had sex on every surface of our cabana, in the ocean, in the hot tub.
He was attentive, but more than that, we had fun.
We’d never really had a vacation before. The move to LA was abrupt, and suddenly it was our new normal.
This felt needed.
I want to take another vacation. For more than a couple of days.
“Did you let him recover?” Brooke asks.
“From the sex? Oh, you mean his knee. He thinks he’ll be able to play the next game or the one after.”
“You guys are almost enough to make a girl believe in love.”
“We’re taking it slow,” I say.
I have enough income to consider getting my own place, but I want to hold off and see how things go over the next few months. My tendency is to leap into things, and I want to be more cautious for both our sakes.
But he opens up to me when he’s having a rough day. He hangs out with the guys to play video games or have a drink after practice.
I’ve been enjoying having my own studio space. Since the gallery show, I’ve been experimenting with different media and subjects.
The real test will be the rest of the season, when everything is thrown outside our control. Clay’s ability to play is still in question, plus all the pressure from the outside and the pressure he puts on himself.
He’s a champion, inside and out.
“How’s your sorority event planning going?” I ask.
“The sister who’s chairing it keeps flashing her ring on Zoom calls like it’s responsible for her Wi-Fi connection.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s as if once she got a diamond as big as her face, she’d won. This is clearly an event to show off their personal victories. Another one is fawning over her. Like all she wants in life is a successful man.”
“Maybe you should introduce her to the guys on the team.”
“Hell no.”
“Trying to protect your sister?”
“Trying to protect the guys.”
I laugh as we get to a clearing and stop to grab a drink from our packs.
My phone rings, and I reach for it. “Hey, Mar. You still good to meet for lunch tomorrow?”
“Change of plans. Work wants me to go to Paris for a month to meet with this other agency. It’s really important, but I was going to say no. But then I thought that we could go together, go to the galleries we imagined as kids.”
I blink in surprise. “When?”
“Next week.”
“Playoffs start.”
“I know. Harlan will be up in his own head. Clay will too. The best thing we can do is clear out.”
I chew my lip. “Let me think about it.”
I hang up and Brooke cocks her head.
“A month in Paris with your sister,” she says when I finish filling her in. “Last year, you would’ve jumped at that.”
“I know.” And I do want it. I picture us pushing Emily in a stroller down beautiful streets, baskets of spring flowers everywhere. “But Clay and I are still figuring out what we can be. I don’t want to risk that.”
On the way back into town, Brooke and I stop by the stadium where the guys are working out in the gym.
Clay’s lifting a massive barbell in a way that makes my insides go liquid.
Next to him, Miles drags off his shirt and reaches for a towel. Brooke’s studying him as if she’s going to be tested on it later.
The guys catch sight of us, and Clay reaches the door first.
“Hey,” he murmurs with a nod.
“Hi,” I say, breathless. “I’m sweaty.”
“Me too.” He bends to brush his lips over mine.
I don’t care if he’s sweaty. I’d climb Clay Wade like a jungle gym whether it’s arm day or leg day.
“You should ask him about it,” Brooke says.
“About what?” Clay’s instantly on alert.
Dammit.
“Mari’s going on this trip and she invited me.” I tell him the details.
“You should go,” he says.
But it’s playoffs, I want to say. I should be here.
To make sure nothing goes wrong.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I say at last.
His eyes soften. “When was the last time you and Mari went away together?”
“We were supposed to when my parents died,” I say.
Clay nods as though that seals it. “Then go. Bring me back some French shit.”
“Fries? A beret? The Mona Lisa?”
“She’s Italian.”
I arch a brow, both impressed he knows and challenging his assertion. “She’s been at the Louvre so long she’s practically French.”