31. Lucy
CHAPTER 31
LUCY
J ordan is my lucky charm. It’s the only logical explanation for how much my anxiety has eased and I’m playing better than I ever have in my entire life.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve worked really hard. But this is another level.
We just won our second-round game handily. It wasn’t as much of a blowout as the first round, but all the starters were still able to rest for almost the entire last five minutes. It was fun to cheer on the rest of the girls who don’t typically get as much playing time–even Sasha.
Although, she didn’t seem to be having much fun. In fact, she looked positively miserable. After each possession, she would glance up into the crowd toward where I assume her parents were sitting. As much as I’m not a fan of hers and we’re certainly never going to be close friends, my heart is breaking for her.
I’m even starting to feel a little guilty about blowing up at her after the social media fiasco.
Just a little, though.
I would categorize my emotion as “righteous anger” because I was defending Jordan, so in that way, it felt justified. Or at least that’s what I tell myself so I don’t descend into a guilt spiral. Putting someone on blast with an audience is not something I ever want to do again.
As I watch Sasha look lost and embarrassed, I’m starting to understand why she acts the way she does. Hurt people hurt people. Sasha appears to have everything, but when it all boils down, her parents’ top priority doesn’t seem to be her happiness. I get the impression that she grew up in an environment where she was made to feel like she was constantly falling short of the Pierson image.
A constant letdown.
A constant disappointment.
Nothing she did would ever be enough.
That would make anyone bitter.
I can understand and even empathize with the complicated emotions that come along with striving to be great. What I don’t understand, though, is how to deal with it when the pressure is coming directly from the people who are supposed to love you the most. I’m probably not tough enough to handle that. I would’ve crumbled.
In that way, she and Jordan are cut from the same cloth, although they’ve handled that pressure much differently. Jordan is striving to get away and putting in the work to do better than his dad. He’s ensuring that the damage and hurt ends with him. Sasha, on the other hand, is lashing out and burning bridges left and right.
Rather than stopping the pain, she’s hell-bent on making other people feel how she was made to feel for her whole life: small.
I watch her go meet her parents as we all file out of the locker room. It’s a heartbreaking sight to behold. There’s no excitement or hugs or much warmth of any kind. In fact, her parents largely bypass her and start making their way around to congratulate all the starters.
Sasha’s face falls as she shadows their path. The Piersons work the room like pros. Their daughter hasn’t earned their attention, so she doesn’t get any.
It makes me even more grateful as I embrace my loving support squad. Jordan, my mom, my grandparents, and my roommates–all with #23 painted on their faces–give me a massive group hug. I’m met with chatter about cool shots I made and laughter about my airballed three in the second half.
Jordan has helped me believe what I’ve always hoped is true: these people would be here no matter what. Whether I played terribly or didn’t play at all, they just want to love and support me. There’s no agenda or expectations. There’s no conditions.
I feel so unworthy of all of it. My eyes fill with tears of gratitude, and Jordan wraps an arm around me. His touch is like a cozy blanket and only exacerbates how loved I feel in this moment. I stay as long as I can before heading to the training room to grab a bag of ice for my throbbing ankle.
One more game. That’s all I need out of this bum foot before we hopefully get some time off before the NCAA Tournament. In that time, I’ll get to rest and recover. But for now, I desperately need ice.
Callie is already waiting with a bag. I make sure she knows how grateful I am. She’s taken amazing care of me, and I’m pretty sure she’s very confused by my overly emotional behavior. I can’t help it, though. I’m overflowing with gratitude toward everyone and everything by the time I leave the training room.
What is with me today? I think the impending end of my career–hopefully not for a couple weeks–is bringing a swathe of emotions I’m not prepared to face. Right now, though, I’m just going to soak in all these amazing people for as long as I can.
My heart is light as I navigate the confusing hallways back to our locker room. I need to grab my stuff before I go back into the arena to watch the final game tonight. We’ll play the winner of the Marquette vs DePaul matchup.
I’m about to make the final turn toward what I really hope is our locker room–this arena is so much bigger than ours, and I’m directionally challenged–when I hear voices. The heated tone of the conversation causes me to stop. I recognize at least one of the voices and could probably guess the others: Sasha and her parents.
I hear the man’s voice first.
“Your mother is just saying maybe it’s better if you aren’t with us in the donor room right now. Go sit with the team and scout your opponent.”
“Why don’t you want me in the donor room?” Sasha sounds hurt.
“Honey, we love you. But it’s embarrassing sitting with all our friends while you ride the end of the bench. It’s not exactly a secret that we got you onto the team, but we always assumed you’d eventually utilize the opportunity. But you’re a senior who only plays pity minutes.” Her mother’s words are biting.
I’m standing frozen in disbelief and horror. I never would’ve expected this harshness from that tiny, quiet woman who always seemed polished and classy. This is the furthest thing from classy. This is degrading and shameful toward her own daughter.
Sasha’s next words are thick with tears. “I’m sorry I embarrass you. Thank goodness this nightmare is almost over so you can show your faces in public again.”
Her dad attempts to mediate. “Sash, don’t cry. Your mother just means it’s been a tricky situation to navigate, both socially and professionally.”
“Oh, so that’s why you gave a car to the girl you wish you had as a daughter and made her the face of the company? Gotcha. Thanks for connecting the dots.”
“Well, did you think it should be you?” Her dad’s tone switches to demeaning real quick. So much for his attempt to show compassion. The question almost comes out as a sneer, and I have to fight the urge to storm in and defend Sasha. It must be bad if that’s an impulse I’m struggling to control.
She backs down, no doubt afraid of a dragged-out fight with these manipulative jerks. “No, I don’t.”
I hear footsteps heading the opposite direction–thank the Lord. I don’t know how I would’ve handled facing these people after what I just heard. When it sounds like the hallway is totally empty, I turn the corner.
Unfortunately, I was wrong about the level of emptiness.
Sasha is slumped against the wall. It’s a version of her I’ve definitely never seen before, and I’m reminded of a wounded animal–even if that animal is a snake or a shark, it’s still kind of heartbreaking.
She hears my footsteps and lifts her head, groaning when she sees that it’s me. “Great.”
Wordlessly, I sink down next to her on the floor. We stare straight ahead for a beat. Then she breaks the silence. “So, did you hear everything?”
“No, just the tail end.”
She nods, still staring straight ahead. “Well, that’s mortifying.”
I finally turn and look at her. “Actually, I wish this would’ve happened sooner. Not you fighting with your parents, obviously, but seeing and hearing what you have to deal with. Seriously, Sasha, I’m so sorry.”
She turns her head up to the ceiling, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. “Don’t apologize to me. I’ve been such a bitch to you–we both know it. You apologizing actually makes me feel even worse.”
“All right then, I won’t apologize for reaming you out in the locker room last week either. But I was going to. I’ve been feeling really bad about it. ”
She levels me with a look of exasperation. “Good ol’ St. Lucy. Can’t even help yourself, can you?”
I roll my eyes. “Because I want to apologize for yelling at you in front of our entire team? I feel like that’s the bare minimum, definitely not saint-level behavior.”
“Well, if that’s the bare minimum, I’m definitely going to hell. I haven’t apologized to you for anything over the last four years. I blamed you for my parents’ disappointment in me when they were like this long before you entered the picture.”
I don’t know what to say, so we sit there silently. She takes a deep breath.
“I’m really sorry for everything–especially the stuff with Jordan. I had no idea what I was doing to him or you. Or maybe I just didn’t want to think about it. I know I hurt you guys a lot, and I’m really happy you got back together.”
It almost sounds like she rehearsed this.
“Oh, well, thank you for saying all that. I really appreciate it.”
She stands up and reaches down to pull me up.
“Truce?”
I laugh as I shift my weight off my bad ankle.
“Sure, truce.”
“The karaoke thing was super cute, by the way. I mean, obviously I was jealous of the attention you got from it…”
I chuckle. “Fair enough.”
“Jordan seems amazing, though. I’d better be invited to your wedding.”
Wedding? Why does that idea not scare me as much as I expected it to? Also, how is it possible that I actually kind of want Sasha there now? Before this moment, you couldn’t have paid me to invite her to my hypothetical wedding. Now, though, it feels like we have a weird connection that was forged through adversity–the adversity being our multiple-years-long hatred of one another .
“I’ll make sure you’re on the list.”
We stand awkwardly for a minute before she turns on her heel and hurries out the door without another word. A bizarre end to a Twilight-Zone -level conversation.
I look around, as if I need a witness to the miracle that just occurred. After years of anger and hurt, suddenly Sasha and I are joking like old friends? It feels like a weight I was previously unaware of has been lifted from my shoulders.
I’ve always hated tension and conflict. Thanks to Sasha, those were constants of the last four years.
But no more.
That storm cloud was just dissipated in a five-minute conversation, and with the enemy no longer poised for attack, I’m free.
I want this feeling for Jordan so badly.
He plays tomorrow in the conference championship, and they’re the underdogs. Win or lose, he’s having the conversation with his dad after the game. With our schedules, I don’t even know if I’ll get to see him before that point.
I head out to watch our future opponent, and then our whole team heads back to the hotel. As I lay on my bed, icing my ankle and watching a baking show with Jacey, I keep writing and deleting messages to Jordan.
I want to tell him…well, pretty much everything. I want to relay my conversation with Sasha and tell him how much I’m going to be cheering for him tomorrow and wish him luck in both the game and his conversation with his dad. I also want to tell him what kind of smoothie I had and how good my pasta was tonight. He’s the person I want to tell everything to.
But tonight the words feel really important, and I can’t seem to find the right ones.
Then I hear a knock.
Jacey is dozing off, so I limp to my feet and check the peephole .
It’s the exact person I was hoping to see. Jordan runs his hands through his hair, not knowing that I’m watching him looking incredibly adorable as he waits.
I open the door and without a word, he steps toward me and wraps his arms around my waist. I reach up, pulling his head into my neck. I hold him close to me as he exhales. His whole body relaxes into me.
When he speaks, the words are soft. “I just needed to see you.”
I can’t help but smile, nuzzling my face into his hair.
“We could still run away to Europe if you want. Let’s just make sure we get an exit row.”
He lets out a full, bellowing laugh. “Check back with me tomorrow and I might take you up on that.” He pulls back and gently kisses my lips. “Okay, I have to get to bed. You make my life so much better. I hope you know that. Sleep well.”
He holds on to me a split second longer, like he can’t get himself to let go. Then with a kiss on my forehead, he walks back in the direction of the elevator. I lean against the door frame, unapologetically checking him out. I give a wolf whistle and call out, “Good luck tomorrow, cutie.”
He turns and gives me a wink.