Chapter 3 #2
She shoves the phone screen closer to show me his original tweet.
I squint and then gasp. “There are over 100K likes. 12K retweets. In like twelve hours.” I knew Daniel was wildly popular, but as his jaded ex it seemed appropriate to try to ignore him as much as possible.
Even as I fell down a YouTube rabbit hole of clips from his show. Only a few brought tears to my eyes.
Jadea bounces on her heels, gesturing to the phone wildly.
“This is what we need. Something to cancel out all the trolls. Something that proves this is not what people should be talking about.” With Jadea’s two million Instagram followers and nearly a million TikTok followers, I know she, too, can feel the rush of social media’s unique brand of justice.
My piddling 20K makes me more cautious, though.
Plus, the Daniel of it all.
“Jermaine said to lay low,” I remind her evenly. Does she hear my secrets in my words?
Coach Rembert calls practice to order behind us, and our little huddle disperses. Taherah shoots me a look as she passes by. “Lay low? Jadea doesn’t have it in her.”
I try to ignore that small part of me that fully agrees with Taherah.
Jadea can lie low, right? Maybe if she really tries.
Daniel tweeted his support of us, as he should, and that will be our new relationship.
Internet acquaintances. That’s better than a jaded ex-girlfriend who was ghosted by a boyfriend with a broken femur, right?
The circling drain of my thoughts is interrupted by Coach Rembert directing us to do a screen passing drill.
It’s a little out of order for our usual practice, since, like any pro team, we tend to start slow with shooting and rebounding drills.
That’s also after we each come in and work on smaller individual workouts.
Despite my concerns that Coach Rembert is possibly keeping secrets from me, I allow a little warmth to bloom in my chest. Coach knows this is my favorite drill.
It’s no secret that I’ll never be the shooter Jadea is, or Taherah, whose lights-out three-point shooting won her the sixth woman of the year award last year.
But—I see the floor. I see my teammates.
I see them cut without really looking. I can pass the ball anywhere on the court, and I swear it magically ends up in their hands. I just know.
When I start at the top of the key, where point guards bring up the ball, Taherah behind me to sub in, I feel like myself for the first time since the news broke.
Assistant Coach Zak tosses me the ball, and everyone begins their motions.
A blur of scarlet and white. Jadea’s brown and red braids.
Olabisi’s green and white sneakers, in honor of her home country of Nigeria.
Lynn playing defense, brown eyes narrowed as she streaks towards the bright red fingernails at the end of Allyson’s outstretched arms. Seeing my split-second opportunity, I whip the ball through the gap created by the screen.
Allyson snatches it and goes for the easy lay-up.
What follows is routine. Lynn clucks her tongue and shakes her head. Allyson double pumps her fists and laughs. Jadea points at me. Olabisi rolls her eyes, like, let’s run it again. I step back for Tahereh and let the second team run it.
I dare Jack Smith and the naysayers to take this away from me.
*
“That was kind of you.” I approach Coach Rembert after practice ends, and most of the facility has emptied.
Our entire practice was upended, and I suspect I was the reason.
Passing drills are rare at this level, but Coach knows I love them.
It was an obvious act of mercy on my obviously frayed nerves.
Coach Rembert straightens at my approach, turning away from the bag she was packing up.
“Annie.” At first, her voice sounds resigned, as though she knows what I want to talk about, but when she finally faces me, her face is the usual cool mask of analysis.
“I don’t know what you mean.” She folds her arms, showing off the patches on her varsity jacket.
We got it for her after her first year here, the same year I was drafted.
We add a patch for every incredible thing she accomplishes.
A winning record in her first season here.
Three playoff berths in a row. And just this year, she was named one of the All-Star game coaches.
All she’s missing is the Championship patch.
Jadea and I bought one last year when we made it to the finals.
We had to put it back into retirement when we lost to the Las Vegas Aces in overtime.
“Coach.” I quirk my lips in a wry smile. “There’s no use pretending you don’t care about me. I’m your favorite, right?”
I mean to sound light, bright, as if my world isn’t on the verge of crumbling. Instead, I sound sad, like I’m saying goodbye. Coach Rembert collapses her firm stance and rubs a tired hand over her face. “I don’t have the answers you need, Annie. I’m sorry.”
I stubbornly refuse to believe her. “You were hired the same year I was drafted. A few months before the draft. You had to be involved. You’re the coach and the general manager for god’s sake!
” I anxiously rub my sweaty palms on my shorts.
I lower my voice. “You’ve seen what they’re saying online.
That the only reason I made the league is because Jack requested it.
Because I’m his…” I stumble and finally spit out, “Daughter.”
Coach Rembert shakes her head quickly in dissent.
“I was here, but it wasn’t my idea to draft you.
Unfortunately, you weren’t on my radar. I wish I could say it was my idea, but the whole front office would know I was lying.
I might be the general manager, but it takes a lot of staff to run this team and even more executives and minority owners.
” She’s right, of course. Jack Smith owns the Arrows, and their NBA counterpart, the Archers, but he’s just the majority owner.
The founder. Numerous people invested in the team and became minority owners.
While the Arrows and Archers are two separate teams, they intersect in a lot of ways.
As you go further up the corporate ladder, there are more and more people working on behalf of both teams. The Archers do get more money, support, and attention, but I know this isn’t just Coach Rembert’s team. As great as that would be.
“But when did you first hear about me?” I ask desperately. “Who wanted to draft me? Do you know?”
She shifts her feet, thoughtful. “It could have been your fath—Jack.” She almost stumbles but quickly regains her composure.
I let her, not ready to give him power over me with that title.
“But it could have been anyone. Most likely, it was a random scout who was hired to find the best fit for the team. They come and go, but I could see if any of the organization’s current scouts went to see you play at Stanford.
If they brought you up as a potential draft pick, that means it wasn’t Jack’s idea. ”
“Thank you.” I tug nervously on my braid. “Coach…what if I am a nepo baby? What if he demanded, come hell or high water, that I be drafted to this team? The trolls are right that my draft analysis shows it was unlikely I would be drafted at all, let alone early second round.”
Coach Rembert fixes me with one of her unflinching looks.
“Personally, I won’t care.” Her light brown eyes are piercing.
“It’s not like you were raised by a billionaire.
You were born here, with your mother to raise you right.
I can already see that your teammates will defend you.
The draft is a game of luck anyway. We got very lucky when we picked you.
” My eyes start to water again, but I know Coach won’t appreciate an emotional display, so I blink them back.
Before I can get too happy, crying into the collar of her varsity jacket, she raises a hand in caution.
“However, I want to prepare you, Annie. This could be very bad for your career. The WNBA has tried to present itself as something above scandal. And while neither you nor Jack is a criminal, this is something people will get stuck on. They will like you, Jack, and possibly the team, less.” I flinch a little at that one.
Coach spreads her hands helplessly. “And that’s just based on rumors.
If anything more is revealed about Jack’s conduct, our reputation as a team, league, and as players could plummet.
Women’s sports always need wins. We need to show ourselves as flawless, competitive, and entertaining.
Mainstream media and a patriarchal society are looking for any excuse to take us down.
We need to tread carefully here.” She picks up her stylish leather tote and begins to head out.
She hesitates right before she leaves the court, turning to see me standing there limply.
Her voice is softer when she speaks again. “I’m sorry, Annie.” She hesitates, as though thinking over what she wants to say. “Sorry that your father isn’t who you wanted him to be.”
A shiver of cool anxiety runs down my spine.
It feels too real to call him that, but I know what she means.
I’d rather my biological father was anyone else, yet I’m stuck with Jack Smith.
I try to smile for her. “Thanks, Coach.” She nods again and heads out, leather varsity jacket gleaming in the fluorescent lights.
I swallow down my jumbled feelings and grab a ball off the rack. I shoot until I feel hot again. Until sweat drips down my cheek, beads on my upper lip, slides down my spine. I shoot until I’ve missed as many as I’ve made.
I shoot to remember that I can’t surrender. I won’t.