Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Dominic
I hate Los Angeles.
I flop onto the couch, long legs stretched out, shoulders aching as I stare at the ceiling. Here in my apartment, there’s no team chatter, no whistle shrieks, not even the hum of a neighbor’s music.
Thank goodness.
My phone buzzes with a FaceTime request, and I groan, then answer my brother.
“Hey,” Derrick says, then cocks his head with concern.
“Bro, you look dead. Is practice kicking your butt?” His face appears blurred at first, half-obscured by the brim of a ball cap and a haze of barbecue smoke.
The background’s my family’s backyard in Texas, where it’s already nighttime, but the porch lights make everything look golden and warm. I can practically hear the cicadas.
And my heart lurches in my chest.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, still rough from stubble I didn’t bother shaving this morning.
“You okay?” he presses.
“I mean…” I consider telling him the truth—about not really fitting in here, feeling suffocated, and desperately missing home—but instead, I just shrug. “Yeah, it’s fine. Just trying to settle in. You know how it goes.”
He nods. “I know it’s a big change. But how’s practice? They treating you like a rookie?”
“Not officially,” I say. “But the rumors about Coach Ellis are right. He pushes us pretty hard.”
He whistles. “Pressure city.”
I shrug. “Maybe just old-school. No free passes. But it’s weird…
” I pause. “The rookie point guard’s streaming his own highlight reel between drills.
No one calls anyone by their real name. I’m officially New Guy.
” I cringe at the admission. But it’s better than being nicknamed something to do with those dang shoes.
“Honestly, sounds like my kind of place,” Derrick says, which is a joke, because Derrick’s never left Texas and never will. He’s got a coaching job at my old high school and a wife who can deadlift more than I can.
Before I can say anything else, there’s a knock on my door, and my heart flip-flops in my chest.
“Who’s that?” my brother asks. “Already having a party with your team? I thought you said—”
“It’s probably the neighbor needing eggs again,” I grumble, shaking my head and absolutely ignoring the weird feeling in my chest. I swing the door open, expecting to see Nicole, but instead…
It’s a Tupperware full of cookies.
I pluck them up from the ground and read the sticky note on the top.
Since Cocoa ruined your shoes, here’s some Cocoa-nut peanut butter cookies to make up for it. :) -Nicole
I almost laugh. It’s kind of … cute the way she signs it with a smiley face.
But I’ll sure as heck never tell her that.
Derrick squints as I hold up the container. “What’s that? Some sort of fancy DoorDash order? Or are you secretly baking?”
I chuckle. “Nah. Neighbor dropped them off. Apparently this is what ‘making amends’ looks like in LA.”
He leans closer to the screen. “That the dog chick?”
“Yep.”
He goes still. “Is she—?”
“She’s terrifying,” I say, popping the lid. The cookies give off a smell that is ninety percent sugar, ten percent guilt trip. “I don’t know how to talk to her…”
He bursts into laughter. “That’s rough, bro.”
I pick up a cookie and eye it with suspicion. It looks too perfect … and I’m certain it would never survive a Texas summer without melting into a glue trap. I bite in, expecting disappointment.
I’m wrong. It’s good. Like, unreasonably good.
Derrick must see it on my face, because he starts laughing even harder.
I try to play it off. “Could use more salt,” I say, even as I stuff the rest of it in my mouth in one bite.
Derrick howls. “You’re so full of it. You like her cookies. I bet you like—”
“I just said they were edible,” I cut him off, shaking my head.
He doesn’t let it go. “So, what’s her deal? She hot? She’s gotta be hot. You wouldn’t be unable to talk to her if she wasn’t…”
I groan. “She’s a lot—and probably spends thousands of dollars a day on things like iced matcha or something.”
“That’s LA, man, right? It’s totally normal.”
“I never claimed I wanted to be a part of their normal.”
“You’ll never be normal.” He laughs. “You literally called me the day you got there because you were ‘paralyzed by choice at the cereal aisle.’”
I frown. “That was a valid crisis. I’ve never seen so many healthy choices.”
The call goes quiet for a second. I finish the cookie and reach for another, and Derrick just watches, waiting. He’s the only person who knows how to do this—just let the silence sit, let me work up the nerve to say what’s actually on my mind.
I glance at the TV, where nothing’s playing, then at the wall, which is empty except for a stain where the last tenant probably ripped down a poster. The city outside is pure neon, the smog catching the sunset and painting the windows orange.
“I hate it here,” I admit softly. “Everyone’s so …
not like they are in the South. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to care about half the stuff they talk about.
The guys on the team are cool, but they’re not friends.
Not yet, anyway. And the only people I see outside practice are just … strangers.”
Derrick nods, just listening.
“Maybe it’ll get better,” I say, but the words taste like a lie.
“It will,” Derrick insists. “You’re just not used to being the new guy. You need a project. Something to help you settle in.”
“Is this the part where you tell me to adopt a rescue dog that will also pee on my shoes?”
He laughs. “I’m saying, stop acting like you’re allergic to fun. Go outside. Do something weird. Meet people. Or at least get on TikTok and roast your teammates. I guarantee you’ll have gone viral by morning. That’s what everyone else does.”
I shake my head. “That’s literally my worst nightmare.”
He grins. “Just saying, you never know.”
The call gets interrupted by a distant yell.
I recognize the voice—my niece, shrieking about a bug in her hair.
Derrick lifts the phone and shows me the chaos.
My sister-in-law is on the patio, water bottle in hand, waving a shoe in the air.
The bug is already dead, but my niece is climbing Derrick’s leg for safety.
I miss it. All of it. Alabama was a lot closer to Texas than Los Angeles.
Derrick brings the phone back, voice softer. “Look, man. I know you’re homesick. Give it another week. You’ll either fall in love or figure out how to survive. Either way, you’ve got this.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say more.
He holds up a barbecue rib, mock-toasts the camera, and says, “Gotta go, it’s dinner time. But hang in there, big guy.”
“Will do.”
He ends the call, and just like that, the silence is back.
I catch my reflection in the dark TV screen—tall, broad-shouldered, sweat still clinging to my hair, looking nothing like the guy who used to feel so sure of where he belonged.
Closing my eyes, I lean into the couch, listening to the hum of the city. Maybe this place isn’t as bad as I’m making it out to be. There’s a rhythm to it—a kind of electricity that almost feels like home, if you listen really hard.
I open the Tupperware again and pull out another cookie. I’ve got to give it to Nicole, this is a solid peace offering.
I’m halfway through Remember the Titans and another cookie—okay, fine, it’s my third—when there’s a knock at the door. I nearly drop the cookie into my lap as I rack my brain as to whether or not I ordered a package…
Or if it’s going to be more peace offerings.
I debate ignoring it. But there’s always the chance it’s important, and if it’s Nicole, I should tell her thanks. I grab a towel to wipe chocolate off my hands and open the door.
And sure enough, there she is.
But she’s not alone.
Nicole stands in the hall, flanked by a man who looks vaguely familiar—like I’ve seen his face on a magazine cover in a dentist’s office and never paid attention. But their resemblance is unmistakable. They’ve got the same high-wattage smile and ocean-blue eyes.
Nicole’s traded her usual athleisure for a purple-and-gold jersey—Lakers, of course—worn like a challenge over skinny jeans and iridescent sneakers. Her hair is loose in careful waves past her shoulders.
She’s gorgeous. And I’m sure she knows it.
However, the man beside her is all polish. His suit is perfectly fitted, not just tailored but custom-shaped to make every other suit in the world seem like pajamas. His shoes gleam, and when he smiles, I swear the temperature in the hallway goes up a degree.
He screams confidence. Ambition. And money.
“Dom!” Nicole chirps, waving like we’re old friends instead of people who’ve shared exactly two conversations and one dog-related incident. “This is my dad, Nikko Farrarah,” she says quickly, like she’s ripping off a Band-Aid.
Nikko Farrarah.
Oh.
Tech, I think. Something big.
“He’s in town for work,” she adds. “And when he found out you live across the hall … well. Here we are.”
“Oh…” I glance down and suddenly realize I could pass for a homeless person, and I can only imagine what her father is thinking. But also…
Why are they at my door? Is this about the shoes?
Nikko Farrarah extends a hand. “Dominic Neelson! The man himself. Pleasure, son. I’ve been keeping up with you.”
“Uh,” I say, remembering to keep my grip firm. “Nice to meet you.”
I should’ve put on shoes. The clean ones.
But he doesn’t miss a beat. “You know, I caught part of your last game with the Jets. Solid baseline D, though your wingspan is wasted if you don’t go for the block now and then.”
I blink. “You watch me?”
He laughs. “I watch all ball. NBA, G-League, Euro. Old ABA reruns. My girl here runs circles around me, but even I know a talent when I see one.”
Nicole rolls her eyes. “Don’t let him fool you. He memorizes every stat. He was banned from March Madness pools at three different offices for ‘predictive modeling’.”
I try to hide my smile, but it’s impossible. I feel honored.
Nikko claps me on the shoulder like I’m family, and peers around me into the apartment.
“Moving in okay? I know these new buildings look fancy, but sometimes they forget to put in, you know, basic appliances. Water heater blew out twice at Nicole’s in just the first week.
They sent a guy named Karl, and he nearly set the place on fire. ”
“It’s fine,” I say, suddenly self-conscious about the empty cup on the coffee table and the random pile of unopened mail. “Just unpacking.”
Nicole glances around, her eyes laser-focusing on the Tupperware. “Ooh, you tried them already?”
I nod despite the fact I’m sure she can see it’s nearly empty. “They’re good.”
She perks up. “He said they’re good, Dad. That’s high praise from a guy who probably only eats protein bars and boiled chicken. I read that in an NBA magazine article.”
Nikko laughs, eyes twinkling. “Well, I’m sure he enjoyed them.”
“Anyway,” Nicole says, suddenly too bright, like she’s trying to wrap this up before it can get weirder. “I just wanted to introduce you. He’s only in town a couple nights, and when he realized you were the basketball player across the hall, he got… curious.”
She gives me a quick, apologetic smile, then nudges her dad toward the elevator. “We should go. We don’t want to be late for dinner.”
Her dad looks back at me. “Someday you should join us, Dom. I’d love to keep talking the game with you.”
“For sure,” I reply, and then bid them goodbye with a Texas-style nod. I watch them walk away and then take a deep breath.
There’s no way I could ever go to dinner with them.
I wouldn’t even know what to wear.