Chapter Twenty-Two
Bee
I let the rainfall shower pelt my head, the water dripping down my skin as I silently screamed.
Eyes squeezed tight, mouth so wide I could taste the eucalyptus shower steamer when it hit the back of my throat.
At least the one positive of being the middle child was that I’d perfected how to be in agony in public.
For every roast session, for every time I had to explain my love for basketball, I’d been able to morph my face into whatever I needed it to convey.
Today, I needed it to convey patience and mild agitation.
Nola spent two hours doing her absolute best to ignore my presence on the court. While yes, I, too, would rather eat several denim jackets before I trained my brain to see Nola and I on the same team, I simply had to.
I didn’t have the luxury of being deliberately defiant. I didn’t have two parents who could make a call to the next owner they knew to get their daughter on a new team. My aunt wasn’t the commissioner, nor did my last name carry decades of legacy.
I was the underdog; a moniker college sports media started and had stuck ever since.
I didn’t ask to have millions of followers on socials, and hadn’t gone running to every athletic brand on the planet to secure a sponsorship deal.
Everyone who had chosen me had done so because of my skill and talent.
I earned my spot on the Jaguars and became a staple for the franchise.
But now I was a traitor.
It was hard to ignore the title every time I was tagged on socials—I was too nosy for my own good.
I went to bed last night crying over people threatening to throw out my Jaguars jersey.
Yes, I’d seen it coming, and knew a vague statement via Instagram would sound worse.
My own friends barely got it, so why would a stranger?
I owed no one an explanation, but the hate was killing me.
I angrily scrubbed the rest of my body, all the hard work I didn’t do because my roommate thought she could do it all herself.
I was honestly proud of myself for not blowing up on her.
The itch to ask for an explanation was under my skin.
I managed to hold my tongue in public—an effort that took immense strength I hadn’t known I had.
There were no more anonymous reports that Nola and I’d had another bad day, so I gave myself a pat on the back.
Why shouldn’t I demand an answer from Nola?
She’d come home before I got into the shower, breaking the little piece of mind I tried to grab onto on the car ride.
Rap music blasted from her side of the door so I banged my fist as loud as possible. I definitely should’ve dried my hair, because I felt every droplet sliding down my shoulders. After three seconds, I banged on the door again, refusing to be ignored on possibly the worst first day of my life.
The door whipped open, Nola backlit by the warm lighting in the room, her features softened by a table lamp glow.
Her platinum twists were partially covered by a black durag and she wore a new sports bra and baggy shorts.
Her strong trapezoids flexed from her grip on the door, accentuating the veins in her hands.
I was briefly hypnotized by the skin on display, by what she chose to look like when she was fresh from a practice shower and in the privacy of her own home. Even if it was partially shared with me.
Her eyes flashed with fury, her irises widening with annoyance until I watched them rake down my body, which made me remember I was naked under this towel.
Her eyes left a hot trail over every inch of my bare skin, doing everything to make me forget why I was at her door.
“Do you have an explanation?” I finally questioned.
“What the hell are you talking about, Lee?” She stared at my chest before her eyes came back up to my face. Which, you know, fair. I did have a nice rack.
“Do you have an explanation for that shit job you did today?” I enunciated every syllable to make sure she heard me clearly. My slow, deliberate words grated her nerves as she narrowed her eyes at me.
“You came to my door, naked, to demand answers out of me?”
“Oh, would you have preferred I did this clothed? Would that have made a difference?”
“Whatever, I don’t have to say shit to you.” Nola started to turn from me.
“You actually do, considering we live together, work together, your aunt and my mentor pretty much got us this job, and we’re a little late to be taking on another deal.
” I listed every point in my finger, praying to God my towel stayed as my fury built.
“I did my work today. I came to practice, ready to work. And what did you do? Tried at every moment to keep your hands on the ball and away from me.”
“I…” she began, then exhaled sharply. “I wasn’t trying to be an asshole.”
“Oh, so it just happened.” I nodded like I understood her resistance. Maybe I did.
“Yes!” she yelled, her hands falling off the door, letting it widen for me to see inside of her room.
Her suitcases were no longer in view, an extra large knitted or crocheted blanket hung off her bed.
I would bet she’d had to use one of her bags just to get that sucker here.
We were both just blank canvases until our stuff arrived.
From her Instagram, I knew she’d traveled the world with her parents since birth, but definitely not in the flashy way.
I was more curious about who she was underneath that.
Did she collect random shit from everywhere she went?
Did she journal? Or was she the same as every other “serious” athlete, who could only afford to spend their time on basketball?
I snapped back to reality, one side of my brain betraying that the other side was looking to know Nola on a deeper level.
“Listen,” I started., “I know the press conference was a hot mess—mostly on my end—and while an apology would be nice…” Nola opened her mouth to interject, but I shot my hand up. The other grabbed the top of my towel to make sure it wouldn’t slip.
“I’m sorry for being an annoying middle child. So sorry, in fact, I was a well-behaved angel today!” I finished.
“Are you looking for external validation?”
“Well yes, but that wasn’t the driving factor. All I’m saying is I tried and succeeded at not being a pain in your ass, your biggest opp, the list goes on.”
“Thanks?”
“You’re welcome! Now it’s your turn! Try to, I don’t know, look at me, acknowledge me, and speak to me—at least on the court—and maybe this won’t be a shit show. Maybe I’ll stop thinking about every Jaguars fan who’s calling me a traitor, maybe everyone will stop pitying you.”
I didn’t mean to tell Nola what kept me up at night, but if I had to, I’d give her the smallest, tiniest, minute sliver of vulnerability.
Nola stared at me again, her softened features neither antagonizing nor judgmental.
The silence allowed me to stare back at her.
I followed the slope of her thick shoulders down to her biceps, more defined than mine, and the six pack she didn’t hide under crop tees that skimmed her torso.
My eyes always gravitated to her nose piercing.
A reminder of a time where I was young, naive, and thought media storylines didn’t blur into real life.
Boy, was I wrong.
“Also, sorry I’m naked, I just had to get all of this off of my chest.” My voice pulled her focus back to my eyes, that suffocating, hot feeling coating my skin again before the absence of her eyes on my body sent another shiver.
“That’s…fine.” She cleared her throat, shaking her head. “But you’re right, it’s not fair you’re always seen as the problem child.”
“A role I’ll only take on the court, but I’ll never accept off it.” I clarified.
“Right. I just have a lot going on in my head, but I promise I’ll try to make your life easier.
” I watched Nola’s eyes sadden as she found the words to say.
I almost said I’ll listen if she ever needed an ear, but that was just me wanting to make everyone my best friend.
We had so much shit between us, so many years of only talking through our games, that I couldn’t even voice my support if I tried.
I backed away slowly from her door, hand tight around my towel. “Thanks, Nola.”
“You’re welcome, Brittney.”