Chapter Thirteen
Bee
Four years ago
Draft Night
“Okay, remind me of the rules again?” My dad mumbled as I guided him to our designated table.
I laughed and rolled my eyes because he meant well, I just hated that I was explaining the most important night of my life for, like, the fifty-millionth time.
I smoothed my hands over the plum blazer dress my mom had designed and created, the lapels bedazzled in a matching jewel tone while I teetered in my sister’s borrowed heels.
“We’re going to sit pretty while the Commissioner goes team by team to read out what teams drafted who. It’s really not that much different from every other sport,” I stated with a strained smile.
What I actually wanted to say was that it was exactly like every other sport my dad watched. There was something about basketball that hit his blindspot.
No matter that I’d been playing since I was ten.
Even with the over explanation, I was glad it was my dad tonight who was supporting me.
Minus the part where my mom couldn’t come if she'd tried. If I had a hard time keeping my thoughts to myself, you could see everything on my mom’s face.
She didn’t have a resting bitch face, it was a resting judgement face.
Her presence in my outfit was enough. It was the opening night of the community’s theater version of Legally Blonde, and her own designs had made it into the final costumes for the show too.
I was glad this was a ticketed invite with a singular plus one.
I was not in the mood to see how many of my siblings would pick her night over mine.
At that thought, my phone dinged with a text message custom to my little sister Celeste.
At least there was one sibling who cared.
“Right, right. And you’ll obviously be picked number one.” My dad patted the hand that was interwoven with his.
I laughed at his endearing obliviousness, because if he’d actually been paying attention to my collegiate career, he’d know Nola Young would for sure get the number one pick.
You didn’t have two superstar basketball parents and not take it all the way.
I still remembered Nola surmised as much during that U19 tournament.
“Love that spirit,” I replied my maybe rival, kind of friend, coming into view. She was swallowed by a crowd of people as her parents hovered behind her. Four years of playing against Nola, and she still made my stomach flutter with butterflies. Was it nerves?
It was an odd feeling I had for my rival, but I couldn’t help knowing that every time I’d been on the court with her—whether together or against—a big part of me was playing to knock down the hot shot.
It felt good to be on a collegiate team with two national championship wins, even though we were now two months off her team’s win against mine.
After two natty losses, she finally got something that I took from her.
But if the accolades weren’t enough, she had a million followers on every platform imaginable and she looked… hot.
At all times.
The fine line between jealousy and attraction competed throughout my body as it normally did when Nola and I had to interact off the court.
I looked down at our tickets again to find that we were seated directly next to the swarmed table and the night was getting started soon.
Just as I was about to sit, Nola stepped around the crowd.
Publicists, strangers, and other girls we’d played with in college followed her like she was their next meal.
She nodded her head at me. “Lee.”
I nodded back. “Young.”
“Uh, these are my parents.” She waved her hand back to them, and her dad greeted me with a wide smile, while her mom silently appraised me.
It was a look that screamed I’m severely suspicious of you, and also came with an approving nod.
I couldn’t believe I was being judged by multi gold medal-winning Olympian, Olivia Young.
I rewatched USA’s finals games from 2000 and 2004 repeatedly.
If this was the look she gave me from being in mere competition with her daughter, I was grateful to take it.
“This is my dad.” I smiled as my dad waved while seated. He wasn’t a social butterfly even if the only men’s basketball player he could name is ten feet away from him.
I may not be dripped in designer like Nola was; her attire fitted suit with designer’s logos down the seams. Her double-breasted jacket was fitted tightly to her waist and arms and, yup, she definitely didn’t have a top on underneath. Her bronzed and shiny sternum nearly blinded me from the lights.
“Nice fit,” I complimented.
“Same to you.” I watched her eyes drag from my face to my feet. I’d practiced my resolve all week preparing for the press, and I still wanted to squirm under her gaze. The same look she’d given me before every game.
My God, she was such a cocky asshole.
“I would say good luck,” I started, “but you don’t need it.” Nola and I finished at the same time, making both of us smirk. An inside joke we repeated at every tip-off.
“Get a new line next year, alright?” I snarked.
“If you’ll even be here to hear it.” She bit back and, oh yes, there’s that feeling.
The feeling of my stomach butterflies freezing midair and dropping to my gut,snapping into tiny ice shards. I rolled my eyes and tried to let Nola’s words roll off my back. She opened her mouth to say something, but a delightful chime alerted the room to take our seats.
Thankfully I was at a table with my other eligible teammates, Sarah, Winnie, Uba, and Farrah. Four girls I couldn’t have survived college without. They were definitely watching our interaction, and I didn’t have to even look at Uba to know she was wiggling her eyebrows.
The league’s commissioner graced the stage, all six foot, three inches of her, another Olympic medal-winning basketball player, Evie Jones.
Between Evie and Olivia, my brain couldn’t process anything that was happening on stage.
Mouths were moving, and the people around me were clapping, but I wasn’t really not following.
This could either be the best or worst night of my life.
As if somehow feeling my spiral, my dad reached over and grabbed my hand. Making eye contact, he gave me a firm, reassuring nod, and I locked back into the program.
“And with our first draft of the night, The Chicago Violets select…”
It won’t be me, but what if it is?
Most sports analysts and journalists I have listened to all my life have Nola slotted as the number one pick and me as the second.
But there was a small group who thought I could upset the draft and go number one.
Both Chicago and the Jersey Jaguars—the second team to pick—needed a dynamic guard or forward, which had been the reason we were pitted against each other for so long.
It won’t be me, but what if it is?
“…Nola Young!” The arena shook with cheers as the media’s favorite kissed her parents and made her way to the stage.
I watched her dap up her other teammates at her table, because the least she could do was show some humility.
Evie and Nola shook hands then held up a Chicago Violets jersey, the moment they were frozen for pictures an opportune time to stare at Nola’s physique again.
Her hair hung in mini braids that were pulled back into a low ponytail.
Her smile dazzled in the light as everything she worked hard for came to fruition.
Her nose piercing sparkled, too. I reached up to feel my own stud; a reminder of the last time we were more than cordial in public.
I disassociated, because that’s what I got for getting my hopes up. That smallest sliver of possibility that I could be first. That a team could see as their number one and not Nola.
I tuned back in just in time to hear, “The Jersey Jaguars select…Brittney Lee.” My dad’s claps were louder than any I’d ever heard, snapping me out of my daze, and into my bright future.
I probably hugged him longer than I should, but when you were in the middle of five children, it was best to soak up any one-on-one time you could get. I confidently strode up to the stage and shook the commissioner’s hand then turned to hold my jersey for pictures.
The cameras snapped, and the audience roared…
for me? Four years playing for one of the biggest schools in the nation, and I still couldn’t fathom that people were cheering me on.
I had the followers that student athletes prayed for, sports media outlets that wanted to interview me after games, and yet I still didn’t get that I was highly sought after.
Not when there’s someone like Nola always in the middle of your spotlight.
I somehow remembered to thank the commissioner again before I was guided off stage so the show could continue.
And before I knew it, a pair of strong arms wrapped me up into the tightest hug.
Strong, commanding hands were on my shoulders.
Hands I had stared at for four years. Hands I’ve stolen balls from, and grazed during tip-offs, and have felt on every inch of my body in the name of the game.
Hands I’ve only seen as competition—will still see as competition, minus our time in Spain—hands that were holding me in an endearing way?
And I wasn’t swatting them away?
Bizarre.
“Yooo, we did it!” Nola shook me, her Chicago Violets jersey still clutched in her hands. “Hellooooo! Earth to Lee?” She snapped her fingers in my face.
“So sorry—I think I’m still in shock.” I wheezed out because my senses were now catching up to my body, and I realized I hadn’t been breathing.
“I feel that. I don’t think I started breathing until they called your name either.” Nola sounded breathless, which was my reminder to breathe again.
We were somehow not in the darkness of the wings of the stage. We’re standing in a bright hallway someone must be guiding the draftees to.
I was officially a draftee.
“Wait, I think I might hurl.” I mumbled, whipping my head around for a door or a trash can and not Nola’s expensive Gucci loafers. ] was that a diamond anklet?