Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Avery
"Watch those hands, Jones. You’re one foul away from being subbed out of the game," Coach White reminds me from the side of the court. It's surprising to me for multiple reasons.
The first being that I didn’t expect to even make the starting five at all today. The second being that I’ve barely even touched the ball enough to have the first four fouls called on me.
I’m not an idiot. I heard the whistle blow more than it normally does for me, but even when my contact was clearly on the ball, the refs seemed to be siding with the other team. I don’t know how deep he is in their pockets, but it’s enough to throw me off my game and risk breaking our win streak.
"Thirty seconds left, Avery. Shake it off," Ryder says, clapping my shoulder.
We’re finally in the lead—and yeah, I’ll give myself credit for that.
We’d been trailing the whole game, but I managed to turn it around in the last quarter. Someone had to.
This isn’t new to me. I’ve been playing long enough to read a guy’s next move before he even makes it.
I guess that happens when you spend nights holed up in your apartment, watching replays and studying game tape until every move becomes second nature.
I nod, wiping the beads of sweat off my forehead. "I’ll get you the ball. Make sure you sink it. We’ve only lost one game this season, and I’ll be damned if I’m the reason we lose another, when I sure as shit shouldn’t be," I say to Ryder, just as the whistle blows for a timeout.
"Jones, on the bench. Wilson, go on for him," Coach White says.
I can’t even protest before Wilson has taken my place.
We might be up by seven, but that lead won’t last—not with Wilson on the court.
He’s solid, sure. You don’t make it to the NBA by being average.
But he’s not me.
That’s not arrogance. It’s just a fact.
When the fans boo and the other team cheers like they’ve already closed the gap, I know I’m right.
"You sure you want to do that, Coach?" Ryder asks him. Being the captain, he likes to contest the choices White makes daily.
They lock eyes for a long beat, Ryder standing firm with his hands on his hips while the rest of us watch their silent standoff.
"Fine. Wilson, put your jacket back on. You can wait until your teammate gets fouled off."
I roll my eyes, but take my place in the circle while Coach gives us a pep talk.
I used to admire him, you know? Used to think there was nobody who did it better.
Hell, he was the coach behind taking us to the top, year after year.
He hand-picked me in the draft, too. But ever since everything went down last year, and the fact that I wouldn’t tell him why, he’s shunned me for it.
Shut me out. Made me feel like I wasn’t a part of the team.
In turn, my teammates did the same.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to just not show up. Be here physically, but not give it my best, but I’m not that type of player. Some days I wish I was.
Today is one of those days.
Ryder and Orlando are the only people who don’t look at me differently. Everyone else treats me like the villain when all I was doing was my job.
As a big brother, it is my job to protect Noelle. No matter where, no matter what, no matter who.
And now there’s Olive. Another person I feel a strong urge to protect with everything I have. But she’s also another person who doesn’t look at me the way everyone else does.
It’s freeing.
"New plan." Ryder claps his hands, cutting off Coach’s rambling. "Jones, keep your hands to yourself, and stay away from any player with the ball. No more fouls for you."
I nod, not liking it, but understanding why he’s doing it. Thirty seconds in the game of basketball is a long-ass fucking time.
"Play smart, and if you know what’s good for you and the team, pass the ball to the person you know will sink it in the net.
Do I make myself clear?" Ryder says, his eyes honing in on our teammates, where he’s met with a collective nod and ‘yes, captain.’.
"Good. Raptors on three," he shouts, putting his hand in the middle of the circle, and everyone follows.
"Raptors!"
***
I haven’t moved from my couch since getting home tonight. After the game, a wave of press followed.
The news finally broke about Olive and me. I’d just landed in New York, and she was already in Idaho.
Honestly? I’m surprised it took this long.
The articles dropped just as I was walking in to be interviewed after the game with a black wedding band around my finger. I played with it the entire time questions were thrown at me.
"When did you and Olive get married?" On the weekend.
"How long have the two of you been together?" Not very long. But when you know, you know.
"Will she be at more games, and will you follow her on tour when the season is over?" Yes, and yes.
"Is your new wife pregnant?" No. And even if she were, it would be none of your business.
"Do you have any questions for me about basketball, or is my private life the only thing you guys seem to care about?" I’d asked them, which got me a warning look from Coach. Orlando shook his head at me from the corner of the room.
"We just never thought of you as the type of person to settle down." I never met the right person until now.
I answered everything the way Orlando told me to. But just because I was expecting questions like that, it didn’t make them any less grating.
I’m an athlete, yet all people seem to care about is my personal life. Like having someone secure on my arm is the only fucking thing that’s important.
I guess my manager’s plan is working.
My phone chimes in the background, and I realize I left it in my gym bag that’s still full and sitting on the floor at my front door.
I’ve been too wrapped up in replaying the game on my TV to see exactly where my fouls were genuine, or when the ref was making calls out of his ass.
So far, I’ve spotted zero mistakes on my end and multiple on the referee's.
Groaning, I turn off the TV and press an ice pack to my ribs, letting the silence and darkness settle over the room.
After a minute, I roll off the couch to grab my phone, dump the contents of my bag into the laundry basket for tomorrow-me to deal with, and head for the bedroom.
I ignore the notification and open Instagram. My feed is filled with nothing but the game, and snaps from the press conference with quotes directly from my mouth, typed into the caption right below it.
Olive is tagged in the photo, too, even though she isn’t in it.
It’s only then that I realize I don’t follow her.
I posted a video from her show the other night with the crowd completely in awe.
I didn’t tag her. Didn’t follow her.
And so, I do what any newly-married man would do: Follow her account, and go through her feed, liking every piece of content she’s posted.
Every single picture gets a double tap, or a comment with a fire emoji or the simple heart eyes.
My phone pings, and at first I think it’s just a reminder of the message from Orlando that I ignored earlier, but it’s not.
It’s Olive’s name on the screen. I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes looking at pictures of her, like some obsessed husband.
And now, she’s reached out.
It hits me harder than I want to admit.
Because whatever this is—whatever we are—I’m already in too deep. And part of me doesn’t even care anymore.
I just want more of her.
Olive Herring
Stalking me, are you?
Shouldn’t you be asleep?
You’re right. Goodnight!
Wait
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even open my reply.
I laugh to myself knowing she’s likely passed out from a long day.
Once I’ve liked every single photo on her feed, I lock my phone and toss it onto the nightstand.
Then her name flashes on my screen.
A video call.
I jolt upright, run a hand over my buzzed hair, and check my teeth like a lunatic.
I haven’t eaten in hours.
Exhaustion doesn’t cancel out vanity.
I answer the call.
"So much for sleep," I tease as I rest my back against my headboard.
"You’re the one who assumed I’d be going to bed this early.
Besides, my body doesn’t like it when I’m this full of adrenaline.
Feels like I have little tiny heartbeats over every inch of my skin.
" She smiles lightly, and it makes her seem lighter.
I bet she feels a little better being able to talk about it so freely.
"The way you describe things is…"
"I know. I’m probably a little too descriptive." She shrugs, combing her fingers through her wet hair as she sits down on her couch. "Comes with being a writer, I suppose."
"I get it. Orlando was the exact same when he was first diagnosed." The quiet between us is comfortable, but I have the urge to break it. "When did you get diagnosed?"
I want to know as much about her story as possible.
"A couple hours before I went on stage for the first time on this tour." She takes a deep, shaky breath. I know there’s more she wants to say, so I wait for her to be ready.
Finding out such life-changing news the day she’s about to embark on something she probably worked for her whole life? Yeah, that would’ve been a hard pill to swallow. And she’s hidden it from everyone close to her, too.
"I went on a smaller tour with Akira a few months ago, which you know about. My sister, Cassandra, had just found out she was pregnant. Jenna and Cole had just finished up the filming of their movie in Grangewood, and Lizzie was just…busy, living her life. So, when they asked me to go on that tour, it felt like the right time. It was all acoustic shows, and I built a small following from that. But once I’d gotten home, my body just felt different, in a way. "
"Different, how?"
"I’ve always been really in tune with my body.
I could always tell when I was getting sick, or when I’m ovulating, or about to get my period.
But this was just different. My energy had dwindled.
My brain felt like there was a constant cloud around it, making everything around me so hard to understand.
So foggy. I couldn’t even remember the names of people I’d worked alongside for the last few years.
" The expression on her face changes. It softens in a way that looks like she’s about to break.
"You don’t need to talk about it," I reassure her.
Olive shakes her head. "I want to. It’s kind of nice to get it off my chest. If you’re okay with it, that is. I don’t want to bombard you," she quickly says, her cheeks flushing a soft shade of pink. "I didn’t even think that you might not be comfortable with it. I’m sorry."
"I’m comfortable. Tell me everything you want to."
She smiles. "So I admitted myself into the hospital."
"How come you haven’t told your family?" I ask.
She hangs her head while scrunching up her nose. "Because they worry. They worry so much, and Cassandra doesn’t need that. None of them do. My parents are getting older. They’ve just become grandparents. They don’t need their joy over that to be ripped away over something that might…might take—"
"It won’t."
"I know." Her lip trembles. "But it might."
"And we will focus on that if that time ever comes. Heavy on the if, Olive. Really fucking heavy, and I mean it." I wish she were here beside me. But she’s on the other side of the country being an absolute rock-star. I have an early flight tomorrow to Chicago, so I can’t even drop everything to be there with her.
"This marriage might be business, but I’ll still be here for you when this is all over. Even if you don’t need me to be"
Her trembling lip turns into a full-on shake before the tears fall freely down her cheeks. "I’m just scared, you know?"
I want to tell her that I know. That I’m scared for her, too. But I don’t, because that isn’t what she needs.
"Anyway, it’s late. And I need to get off my phone and get some sleep. Goodnight, Avery."
"Okay," I say softly. "Goodnight."
The call ends, and I’m left staring at a black screen.
I meant to tell her to sleep well. To call if she needed anything.
But I didn’t.
I sigh and open Orlando’s text. He wants to meet at the gym before our flight out. Great.
I spend the rest of the night spiraling, Googling medical trials, digging through articles about the kind of medication she’s on and the side effects they don’t tell you about.
Even though I already know most of it.
I did the same thing back when Orlando showed up at our dorm room, completely ruined after getting his diagnosis.
I remember sitting on the floor with my laptop, doing everything I could to understand something I’d never be able to fix.
And now here I am again. Same spiral. Different person.
When he and I cried for hours about the ‘what ifs?’ and the ‘what nows?’
It was also the same day that we both determined he would be okay.
And it’s how I know Olive will be, too.