Chapter 19 #2
And then, on the flip side, there would be hundreds of tweets mentioning what a monster I am.
Analyzing the scandal. Monitoring the investigation.
Currently, I can still play. It isn’t until the investigation is complete that the WNBA would hand out the punishment.
But to play now, with Trenton watching and my teammates hating me seems impossible.
People believe I’m a cheater. How to convince them that I’m not?
It appears that Jack did manipulate things in my favor, and the only thing I had going for me was that I never knew.
Now it looks like I not only knew about it, I asked for it.
My oatmeal tastes terrible, like ash in my mouth.
It’s difficult to tell if that’s because of its low quality or because of me.
As the clock ticks closer and closer to tip-off, I itch to turn on the game.
I’ve never seen us play on TV before. I think we’re on a local channel, like The U or something, so who knows if I’d even be able to find it.
Instead, I watch the clock change numbers. I play solitaire with the deck of cards Wendy provided for me. I try to read the new Talia Hibbert book I bought on my Kindle. Nothing is working; nothing is distracting me. My skin is crawling, itching, buzzing.
I dig through my suitcase until I find a pair of leggings, a sports bra, my running shoes.
And the neon pink tank top I wore when I went on the date with Daniel.
There’s a flash in my brain, a memory of me encouraging Daniel to do what he needed, to take his time before he ran again.
Why couldn’t he see that I just needed time? A break?
Why did I push him back so hard? Was I looking for any excuse not to trust him, to accuse him of hurting me like he did before?
I shove the neon tank top back down to the bottom of the suitcase and grab a more nondescript one.
The run helps that itchy feeling go away, at least partially.
It’s almost soothing to feel the repetitive nature of my footsteps, the pounding beat of SZA’s latest song in my ears.
I run around the motel eight times. Nine times.
Twelve times. I walk a few laps in between, but it feels too slow, like walking through syrup.
I run again. It’s my fifteenth lap before I finally have the courage to go back into the room.
A sadder, lower song has come on in my earbuds. “Let Us Die” by King Princess. My hand finds the remote. I flip through the channels, looking for a familiar court decked in red and white. Jadea dunking and a solid lead on the scoreboard.
Instead, just as King Princess sings, “If the only way to love you is to let us die,” I see the game is almost over. I ran longer than I thought. The burning in my lungs and calves makes sense now.
The clock ticks down from twenty, and Taherah is just standing at the top of the key, dribbling it out until the end.
It’s because we lost. We lost by fifteen points.
The broadcast ends with an image of Jadea, hunched on the bench with a towel over her head. I slip off the edge of the bed, landing in a similar position. I press my palms into my eyes, trying to find clarity.
How do you know when you’re doing the right thing? Who am I really protecting, the team or myself?
*
The Indiana Fever and the St. Louis Arrows both have their final game on Sunday.
The Fever won theirs. We lost ours by six points.
We don’t get the number one seed.
I’m still in the motel, feeling disconnected from everything.
It’s isolating at the motel. Most people are in and out, and no one bothers you.
I wave to Wendy once a day, and that’s it.
My phone is long neglected. My friends and family held at arm’s length.
The only connection I have to the outside world is when I watch our games.
I convinced myself that the Seattle game was a fluke.
Seattle is always good, and even if I was there, in my normal capacity, we still could have lost. Today, we played the Connecticut Sun, whose season has been incredibly up and down.
We’ve already beaten them twice this year.
It should have been an easy win. Instead, we had sixteen turnovers and shot 33 percent from the field. It was ugly, and it was my fault.
If I was there, I could have helped.
If I truly loved the sport, I would be better at ignoring the noise. I would take it one step at a time. I wouldn’t be so hurt by Trenton’s betrayal. I wouldn’t curse Jack every breath I take. I would just play.
But I’m not strong enough.
After the buzzer sounds for the end of the game, I immediately turn the TV off.
I cannot bear to see Jadea hurting. Olabisi furious.
Everyone beat down. We lost our number one seed.
We have to play in the one-and-done first round of the playoffs.
The WNBA has sixteen teams, two conferences of eight.
The top five teams make it in each conference.
Last I checked, the NY Liberty were the five seed in the east. It’s a tougher match-up than you’d expect out of a five seed.
The Liberty have all the talent in the world, but their superstar, Breanna Stewart, has been riddled with injuries all season.
She’s still not back in playing shape. On the other hand, Sabrina Ionescu was league MVP two years ago, before Jadea, and she’s one of the best athletes I’ve ever seen.
Jonquel Jones has great length and is great around the basket.
They would likely have a higher seed without the injuries.
What’s the right call?
I want to stay here. To curl up and go to bed early. To woodenly play solitaire. To hide in books and the bad soap operas that are on early in the afternoon.
I also want to go back. To apologize to Daniel and tell him I miss him. To clear the air with Jadea who sided with me even when she knew I had lied to her about Daniel. To play with my girls and stomp on the New York Liberty, win our first-round game and keep our campaign for a championship going.
If only there was an easy answer. Do I hurt them if I play? Will the crowd become distracting if I’m there? Will hurt feelings boil over? Is there any way to outsmart Trenton? Do I hurt them if I stay here?
I don’t know the right answer, but something propels me to my feet.
I grab my keys, phone, and wallet, more out of habit than anything.
I’m wearing a stained Stanford sweatshirt that used to be Jadea’s, rainbow tie-dye running shorts, and my sneakers.
I head automatically to my car and just start driving.
I head further away from St. Louis and the motel, taking one of the first exits I see.
I should be reading the street signs, but I figure if I get too desperate, I can always turn on my phone just for the GPS.
I soon realize I’m entering suburbia. It must be one of the suburbs about an hour or so outside of St. Louis.
The houses are nice, mid-sized and cookie cutter.
I soon pass by a high school: Central High School with the damning colors of scarlet and white. They follow me everywhere.
Outside of the school is a football field, baseball field, tennis courts, and, to my surprise, outdoor basketball courts.
It’s a week or two before school officially starts and very early for any high school basketball team to be worrying about their seasons.
But I’m surprised to see one girl standing on one of the courts, shooting.
She looks young, maybe a freshman or sophomore.
I pull over into the school’s nearly empty parking lot. I watch her raptly. She reminds me of Jadea a little bit, flying as she hurtles towards the basket, braids whipping around her in a halo. She runs a few shooting drills but gets stuck on her three-point shot.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m out of the car.
I walk across the grass until I’m standing on the edge of the blacktop.
“I had trouble with that shot, too,” I say evenly, surprising the girl enough that she almost drops the ball.
She wheels around to face me, knees slightly bent as though on defense. “I still do, to be honest.”
I’m so used to the anonymity of being a female athlete that I’m surprised when she says, “Annie Larger?” She sounds dubious, as though it would be impossible for me to be here.
I suppose it is almost impossible; I should have been playing in the loss today. “How many threes do you take a day?” I ask conversationally. I join her on the court, staring up at the slightly tattered hoop.
The girl shrugs. “Not that many. I hate missing.”
Not only does she play like Jadea, she sounds like her, too. I have to smile then. “Everyone hates missing, at least a little bit. But my three didn’t even become passable until I made at least a hundred of them a day.”
The girl rolls her eyes like I’m a well-meaning, bothersome coach. “I know, I know.” She dribbles the ball a bit, narrowing her eyes at me. “Aren’t you going out with Daniel Chan?”
I have to bark a laugh at the non-basketball related question. Our fake relationship really was the talk of the town. “I was, I guess. It’s hard to explain.”
She takes a few steps back and throws up a three-pointer.
It clangs off the rim. I rebound it for her, passing it back so she can try again from the same spot.
She misses again and then says, “What about the team? Why didn’t you show up to your games?
Is that hard to explain?” She sounds a little sharper, pushy.
I wonder if she’s a fan and heard that I cheated to get on the team.
I wonder if she’s disappointed I didn’t play in our last two games of the season.
She rolls up the sleeves on her gray Central High School hoodie and throws up another three. This one is better, her form falling closer to in rhythm, and the ball just barely rims out of the hoop. I keep my gaze on the hoop and rebounding the ball. Finally, I say to her, “You saw that, huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “If you have any interest in basketball at all, you’ve seen the video about you. They’ve talked about it every morning this week on The Jump, and my favorite sports podcaster is doing a whole week of content on it.”
I sigh. “It’s complicated.”
The girl dribbles again and shoots another three. Swish. I smile a little and see one pulling at her lips, too. “It doesn’t seem that complicated to me,” she says, taking another pass from me. “There are only two things you need to think about.”
Jadea’s confidence, too.
“And what’s that?” I humor her. It’s nice to talk to someone impartial, even if she is just a kid.
“One: Did you cheat? Did you do what your brother said you did?”
I probably shouldn’t answer a stranger so honestly, but I also don’t feel the impulse to lie or duck the question.
I keep my eyes on the hoop. “I didn’t ask my father for anything.
I didn’t even know who he was.” She gives me a look like, see.
I continue, undeterred, “But I might have unknowingly benefited from bad things my father did. He manipulated the draft for me, I just didn’t know he was doing it. ”
I expect her to nod thoughtfully, act like this really is complicated, but she just shrugs and says, “Details.” Another shot, another swish.
I watch her make two more before I ask, “And what’s the other thing? The second thing?”
I pass the ball back to her, and she actually pauses, turns to me fully.
“Do you love the game?” Before I can answer, she says, “I’ll play as long as anyone will let me, and I’m not nearly as good as you are.
I probably never will be. So, are you going to quit what you love, or did you never love it in the first place? ”
I grimace, wondering if it really is that simple. “How old are you? Who are you?” I try to make it a joke, but we look at each other seriously.
“Jordan Davis. I’m a junior at Central High School and the backup small forward for our girls’ basketball team.” She rattles it off like I’m a college scout.
I smile at her. “I think you’re going places, Jordan Davis.”
She smiles a little, too, then glances at her smartwatch. “Don’t you want to head home?”
“What?” I ask confusedly. If she’s referring to the game, it was at 2 PM and is long over.
“Aren’t you going to watch your boyfriend’s show?” I had been driving longer than I imagined if it was nearing 7 PM, when Our World Through Sports airs on HBO. She shows me her watch, “It’s almost six fifteen.”
I wave a hand. “I don’t watch every episode.” At least, I don’t want to watch this one. I don’t want to analyze every move Daniel makes, if he misses me, if he’s still angry with me, if he’s already moving on.
She looks at me like I have two heads. “Seems a little weird, considering the episode is about you.”
“What?” I practically shout, fumbling a pass from her.
I try to tone it down and take a deep breath.
“Our piece isn’t even close to being finished.
It’s supposed to air like a month from now.
” He would have had to rush the entire thing, which is not Daniel’s style.
I can’t imagine him putting his production team through that.
She shrugs like any teenager would. “Maybe he rearranged things. He put it all over his socials. The Arrows’ piece is definitely on tonight.”
I’m already backing off the court, heading to my car. “Thank you, Jordan!” I shout at her, waving earnestly.
Just as I’m shutting the car door, I hear her shout back, “I better see you playing in Wednesday’s playoff game, Annie Larger!”