Chapter 9
We’re supposed to be boarding the bus to Indianapolis in twenty minutes, but I’m still on the court shooting.
I’ve decided to practice my free throw, because out of all my shots, they feel the most rhythmic.
My three-pointers are streaky, and my jumpers are rare. But at the line, I almost never miss.
Everyone else already boarded the bus, and most of the lights were turned off by the facility manager. It’s dim in here, with pockets of low lights reflecting off the court.
That’s where Daniel finds me.
I hear him walking across the courts, quiet and steady. I don’t turn to look at him; instead, I inhale and exhale when I see the ball swish through the hoop. My brain needed a vacation from Trenton, Jack, and all the men out there who are just like them.
He doesn’t say anything, hovering at the baseline. His face is half in the shadows, but I can see that he isn’t smiling. He rebounds a few balls for me, cleanly passing them back so I can shoot again.
Finally, when I’ve made eight shots in a row, I stop. Some of that adrenaline-fueled rage has settled, and basketball serotonin is surging through me instead. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning the ball over in my hands. “For blowing up in that interview.”
“Don’t apologize.” Daniel’s voice is firm.
He takes a couple of steps towards me, into a pocket of fluorescent light.
“Everything you said was true. We took screenshots of the comments to show our viewers. You shared what you were feeling in the moment. Nothing wrong with that.” He smiles then, though it looks a little softer than I’ve seen these past few days.
A little more personal, a little less man-on-the-silver-screen.
I huff and throw another shot up. It clangs off the rim loudly.
Daniel wordlessly passes it back to me. “I can’t just say how I feel.
Sometimes I don’t even know how I feel. I know that the WNBA is frequently ignored.
I know that some of the most amazing fans in sports struggle to find our games on TV.
I know that when one of us gets hurt, the injury might not even make mainstream news.
I know that every time we dunk and prove ourselves, men get more disgusted that they might have to tune in.
” I dribble emphatically with each point.
“But the WNBA also isn’t perfect. I know that straight, white girls like me have more media and sponsorship opportunities.
I know that there are sometimes toxic coaches or teams. It happens.
This scandal with Jack, Trenton, and my…
family, where does that fit in? If the league’s investigation confirms all the mismanagement Jack has been accused of, what will this team do?
They would not be remiss in getting rid of me.
I understand that. I benefited from underhanded activity, even if I knew nothing about it.
But…” I trail off, feeling like I’m talking in circles.
If I were trying to be a moral person, a good person, what would that hypothetical person do?
Should I bow out of the season? Should the league suspend me for a few games as punishment? Am I being selfish if I want to play?
If that’s what I want to do forever?
Daniel steps even closer to me, effectively blocking my next compulsive, agitated shot.
He opens his hands, and I pass the ball to him.
He turns it over, admiring it, and then looks at me.
“But…” he continues softly, “you were an All-Star this year. You’re second in the league in assists and fifth in steals.
You and Jadea have created an exciting identity for a new team, with the help of Lynn, Olabisi, Allyson, and all your teammates.
It’s okay to admit you love what you have, and you feel like you deserve it, Annie. It’s okay to fight for it.”
My eyes are watering as usual, though it’s difficult to tell what kind of tears they are. Desperate, angry, sad? Hopeful, when I really look at the belief shining in Daniel’s face?
I’m about to respond when Daniel asks, “Do you want to play some one-on-one?” There’s a teasing quality in his tone, even if I can’t fully see the sparkle in his eye.
“Right now?” I say, barking out a laugh. “Sure, why not?”
“You first.” He bounces the ball to me, and we start at the top of the key, both trying to score on the same basket. Half-court play.
I don’t want to brag—but I am a WNBA player and All-Star, as Daniel just pointed out.
So, I start small. I dribble the ball a few times between my legs, switch hands, stalk back and forth across the top of the key.
Daniel keeps his eyes on me, the distance between us less than a foot.
I carefully avoid his bad leg, the left one, but then dart past him and score the easy lay-up.
Daniel groans good-naturedly, and I pump my fist. “Your turn.” When Daniel has the ball at the top, I give him a bit more room to breathe.
It only seems fair.
What doesn’t seem fair is Daniel taking advantage of that space and shooting an easy three-point shot. The ball swishes through the basket behind me, and I spin around to face him, mouth open. “You didn’t use to be able to do that!”
In fact, Daniel used to have abysmal aim. As a track star, he could absolutely keep up on defense, but his shot was terrible. The Daniel of today shrugs, a cocky smile tilting up the dimple. “I play pick-up every weekend with some people in New York.”
I huff impatiently at his response, and we go again, playing the first to ten points.
In the end, I win. It’s close enough to make Daniel happy, and with a decent enough gap to make me happy.
When I win it 10–6, I jump a little in excitement.
“Yes!” I point at him. “Victory for Annie Larger! Just like the old days!”
It’s a familiar routine from our time together at Stanford, one that usually involved the loser pouting for a few hours, but Daniel isn’t pouting. Instead, there’s a softness in his face, his eyes. He looks like he’s proud of me. For winning pick-up basketball.
“You’re different now,” I blurt out, discombobulated by his graceful and kind losing face. “Than when we were dating.”
Daniel freezes for a moment, clutching the ball hard. I can see the whites of his knuckles. After a strange moment of tension, he releases a sigh. Straightens. Smiles, just a little. “I am different. The accident changed me. I had to start over.”
I want to protest, but instead I wipe some sweat off my brow, stalling my quick tongue.
I couldn’t have been a part of that future?
Or he couldn’t have at least let me know he needed to move on?
I don’t want to ruin the moment by arguing over the past, so I say, “You were so intense, mostly about track. Not to say you couldn’t be social when you needed to be, but you smiled less.
You were moodier, more focused on your goals than partying or meeting with friends.
” I tilt my head, studying him and wishing he weren’t so beautiful.
He looks like an angel standing in the strange, low fluorescents, eyes shadowed and skin gleaming.
“We just stayed in every day and watched sports. Hit the gym together. I went to your track meets, and we analyzed your times. You went to my games, and we analyzed my shots. Now, you’ve lost that obsessive edge.
That frenetic energy.” It’s difficult to describe how I feel about the softer, kinder Daniel.
He’s wonderful, but I thought he was wonderful before. I thought we were wonderful together.
Daniel’s smile wavers a bit. “I had to lose it, remember? I couldn't run hurdles with a steel rod in my leg and a partially collapsed lung.” I remember arguing with a nurse about Daniel’s accident when I was first called to the hospital.
I said numbly that it couldn’t be possible that he had been hit; he always wore reflective strips when he ran.
He was always cautious, focused, safe. The nurse told me Daniel had a broken femur, three broken ribs, and a collapsed lung.
He was lucky to be alive, and he would never run hurdles again.
“Is that why we broke up?” I try to say it tactfully, but the words still have that bitter edge.
“Because we couldn’t do the same things anymore?
Would it be too painful to watch me play?
” A small part of me can understand that.
What would our relationship have been like?
Would he have resented me? Would I have made myself smaller to fit into his new environment?
“Annie.” Daniel’s eyes are burning as he looks at me. His voice is strangled. “I’m so terribly sorry for how I left things. My life was falling apart, and I took it out on you.”
“And now my life is falling apart, and you showed up to help,” I volley back at him.
“But would you have shown up if Jadea hadn’t called?
” It’s a cutting response, but one he doesn’t duck away from.
The Daniel I used to know was a bit of a sore loser, someone who avoided giving in and saying sorry.
Now he appears calm and contrite. He feels like a stranger, albeit a likable one.