Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Stop staring at the jumbotron. The action’s right in front of you.
” Parker nudges me, snapping my attention back to the court.
I can see the adrenaline in the air as clearly as I can spot the sweat between the athletes’ brows.
Every squeak of sneakers is amplified from this close.
We’re five minutes into the first quarter, and I’ve had half an hour to get used to my courtside seat, but I can’t stop fussing.
What I’ve learned from this evening’s events is that sitting courtside isn’t as simple as having front-row seats to a game.
When we arrived at Barclays Center, Parker guided me to the VIP entrance, which took us through the back tunnels of the arena.
We were informed our tickets granted us access to the Nets’ practice court, as well as the Crown Club—where no reservation is required to try a Carbone-inspired spicy rigatoni.
“Looks like you really can con a Michelin meal out of a man,” Parker remarked, sitting across from me in a plush velvet chair.
The moment we settled into our premium seats, the silverhaired sharks began to circle.
Older men in button-down shirts with dollar signs in their eyes swarmed over to check in on Venture deals and drop celebrity names.
It had all faded into background noise, however, because I was far more fascinated by the players stopping by during warm-up.
I was still trying to comprehend how the boy next door was dapping up an NBA superstar—when Parker turned around and introduced me as his good friend.
Once the game’s in motion, the twenty-something-foot screens hanging over center court call my attention. “They don’t still do kiss cams, do they? I swear to god, if it cuts to us, I’m going to sock you in the face and make a run for it.”
Parker just chuckles, composed as ever. “Now, I know that’s a lie. You’ve grown fond of my face, I can tell.”
“Doesn’t mean I want seventeen thousand people to see it smashed against mine.”
He checks behind us to see if anyone’s listening. “Right, you’d prefer to be sitting on my face in private.”
My stomach does a mighty flip, and suddenly I’m very hot.
I slide off my jacket and place it on the seat beside me, which has been vacant since we sat down.
It’s only added fuel to my anxiety. I’m antsy that some reality TV star will show up late and claim it, and I’ll end up snapped in paparazzi photos next to them, immortalized on gossip forums.
Parker buys two beers from a vendor and passes one to me. “Are you following?”
My face is a snarl of focus as I watch the players run up and down the court. The Nets are playing the Toronto Raptors, and so far, they’re leading by five. “I think so. But everything I know about basketball is from Slam Dunk, and I watched that when I was ten.”
I get a rundown on the rules, and Parker gets a recap of the Slam Dunk ending. His phone pings once and then again in rapid succession until he finally unlocks it with a pleased laugh.
“Reggie found out I took you the game instead,” he explains.
“How?”
“Live stream.”
“They can see us?” I ask, looking with mortification over my shoulder.
“Glimpses here and there. You know there are cameras, right?” He taps a reply, and text bubbles flash on the screen in quick bursts. Each message makes his grin widen, and he fires back with speedy thumbs. When he finally sets his phone aside, he says, “Sorry. Venture group chat.”
I dither over asking, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “Is that, like, a company-wide chat or . . .”
“Just my friends.”
“And your work wife?”
“I told you; Heather’s not my work wife.”
“Yet you thought of her right away.” I reply a little too hastily.
“And she has your boat and calls you, like, all the time.”
“She’s got my boat because I can’t leave it sitting at the marina for months without upkeep. Also, Reggie calls me just as much—does that mean I have to work-marry him too?”
“I think Reggie would probably be happy to real-marry you,” I say, then steamroll right into my next question without selfrestraint. “Does Heather look like she works at Venture too?”
Parker raises a quizzical brow. “What do you mean?”
My expression flattens with the silent energy of you’re kidding right? “Here at super sexy Venture, we pair your super sexy athlete with our super sexy staff.”
“Good one. We should get you to write campaign slogans.” He shakes his head. “I mean, the obvious answer is she’s goodlooking. But she’s not my type, and I’m pretty sure I’m not hers.”
“Can I see?”
He doesn’t question my motives and takes out his phone again.
When he hands it to me, an Instagram page is already on the screen.
It occurs to me that a girl could text him right now, and I wouldn’t be able to avoid seeing it.
The thought doesn’t persist, though, because I’m immediately distracted by photos of a gorgeous, tanned blonde idling on the beach and sprawled across the hood of an Aston Martin.
As I swipe through bikini photos, my jaw drops open at the most amazing pair of knockers I’ve ever seen.
“That’s not your type?” I sputter. “Even with the—” I make the universal sign for gargantuan breasts with both hands.
His lips press into a flat line. “My type doesn’t correlate with the size of a woman’s chest.”
I dismiss him with a laugh. “I’m sorry, but you, as a straight man, cannot expect me to believe that.”
“Dani, we’re not all hardwired to prefer one type of woman. Breasts come in different sizes, so naturally we have preferences too. You have certain traits you like in men, don’t you?”
Tall, with arms that look like they can throw seventy yards on the fly. But that’s a can of worms I’d rather not open. I glance down at my own chest, coming in at an underwhelming B cup.
“So, what’s your preference?”
In what feels like the longest three seconds of my life, Parker’s eyes sweep over me, quite literally sizing me up. I chew my lip, skin flushing hot again.
“Some guys prefer big boobs, and that’s great.
I mean, all boobs are fantastic—you can never go wrong.
But I like when they sort of . . . fit perfectly in my hands?
” As if he’s imparting age-old wisdom to me, his delivery is measured and calm.
He makes the motion of holding something delicate.
“I can’t explain the feeling, but it’s nice.
Snug. Like if dreams were a pillow, cupped in the palm of my hand. It’s almost like . . . like . . .”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear it.” I stuff the phone back into his pocket. So, Parker likes small boobs. I’m going to file this piece of information away into a folder called Facts I Never Wanted to Learn About the Boy Next Door.
“Anyway, I like your boobs.”
“I don’t want to talk to you about boobs anymore.”
A time-out is called by the Raptors, and another group of men rallies around Parker—some introducing themselves, others chatting like old pals.
Hands are shaken. New contacts saved to phones.
This group is younger than the last, more relaxed in their polo shirts.
One of them approaches me to ask if I’m enjoying the game.
“This is my good friend, Dani,” Parker tells him. It isn’t until his visitors disperse that he takes his seat again. “That was the Nets’ GM.”
“You know the general manager personally?” My eyes widen. “Are you friends with Jay-Z too?”
A glammed-up woman with silky brown hair approaches, and at first, I think she’s here for Parker too, but she halts at the seat next to mine. Lifting her sunglasses, she stares down puzzledly.
I grab my jacket in a rush. “Sorry!”
“No worries, love.” Her face relaxes as she sits down. “I really should’ve prepared for the traffic. I’m from London, and we live in permanent congestion over there.”
“Oh, wow, you came from London! You must really love basketball. Or the Brooklyn Nets.”
She laughs, faint lines appearing at the edges of her eyes. Everything from her smile to her fur vest and thigh-high boots is striking. I wonder if I’m sitting next to someone from The Real Housewives.
“Sadly, no. I’m in town for business, and a friend from Vogue gifted me a ticket. To be honest, I feel like an impostor being seated this close. I hope you can bear with me for tonight. I take it you two are big fans?”
“Ho, boy, you couldn’t keep us away.” I don’t know what I’m saying, let alone why, but I know I feel intimidated. “We’re all about the sports here. Huge fans of the sports.”
“Stop saying the word like it’s trademarked,” Parker mumbles into my ear.
“Shut up,” I hiss back with a slap to his leg.
Swiveling toward the woman, I drop the ruse.
“I’m sorry. I’m an impostor too. Not this guy, though—he practically gets paid to be at games.
I’m trying not to feel out of place, but to be honest, the only sport I’m familiar with is football—oh, American football, that is! I don’t know as much about soccer.”
She’s smiling sympathetically so I’m certain she thinks I’m an idiot. But she offers a hand. “Estelle Pearson. I’m chuffed to meet a fellow impostor.”
“Dani Tsai,” I say, shaking her hand.
“Parker Tran,” he says, introducing himself. “And don’t listen to her, I’m not getting paid to be here.”
“Dani Tsai . . . I think I know that name.” Estelle fetches her phone from her designer purse. “Any chance you’ve written for Adagio?”
I gape at her. “You know who I am?”
“I’ve been reading Adagio for years now. I’m an editor for Dénouement, a magazine in the UK. We’re also a quarterly publication.”
“I’ve read your magazine!” Lindsay almost always has a copy of Dénouement on her desk, and I’ve borrowed an issue here and there.
With its emphasis on original artwork and world-renowned experts backing its articles, it’s produced some of the most insightful long-form journalism I’ve had the pleasure of reading.
It’s where I first learned about the perils of breathing unfiltered air in a Gilbert-less home.
Estelle beams and drapes her long hair to one side.
“I started reading your magazine as a means of scoping out the competition, but I’ve come to properly enjoy it.
And your pieces really stood out to me! I loved the one you did on libraries around Europe.
Did you really take all those photos yourself? ”
“I did!” I sit up straight, hands wrapped around my beer, excitement stirring.
“I had a plan to visit the most iconic libraries while I was there. My only regret is that I didn’t make enough time in Germany to see the Wiblingen Abbey library.
That and the Tianyi Pavilion in China are my holy grails as far as libraries go. ”
“Wiblingen Abbey is stunning! An absolute masterpiece of the Baroque. You’ll fall in love with the frescoes.
” The crowd erupts into cheers after a three-pointer, and Estelle waits for the applause to die down.
“I thought you had such a whimsical approach to your journalism, but when I Googled you, there weren’t many results.
I couldn’t find a website or even an X account. ”
“I’m not actually a journalist. I’m a copy editor,” I say sheepishly. “But I do some freelance writing, mostly for Adagio.”
“Well, I’d love to read more of your work.”
Estelle and I chat through the second quarter, and I tell her all about my trip to London—how much I loved taking the Tube, visiting my favorite galleries in Shoreditch, and walking into an unassuming pub only to join the drunk locals in belting out “Sweet Caroline” by the end of the night.
“I loved Sunday roast too,” I prattle on. “I stayed an extra weekend just so I could have it again.”
She giggles. “You know you can have a roast any day of the week, right?”
“I know, but there’s something cathartic about it being a Sunday-only thing.” As I finish off my beer, a hand swoops down to take the empty cup from me.
“Want another one?” Parker asks, standing up from his seat.
“Sure,” I respond. “Where are you going?”
“It’s halftime. I’m going to head back to the lounge.”
My eyes track him as he maneuvers easily through the crowd, exchanging words with players, until he disappears into one of the tunnels.
Estelle leans over and says, with a note of mischief, “I think he’s sulking because I’ve stolen his girlfriend all night.”
“We’re just friends,” I clarify with a polite smile.
“Really?” She looks surprised but doesn’t press.
I remember passing by The Pantry earlier—a literal candy room in the VIP section—and ask Estelle if she’d like to secure snacks with me.
We return to the court with our hands full of popcorn and sweets just in time for the game to resume.
I split a Kit Kat bar with Parker as he goes over the rules of fouls with me.
When the game goes into overtime, Estelle lets me know she has to leave for an event on the Upper East Side.
“Dani, you’ve been lovely. I hope we can stay in touch. What are your socials?”
“Oh, um . . .”
“She has an Instagram.” Parker nudges me, and when Estelle passes her phone, I type my username into the search bar.
“Big night for you.” He shoots me a quick look once she’s gone. “You know there was a basketball game going on, right?”
“I’m paying attention now, I promise.” I offer him a smile and a Twizzler. “I’m having a good time, Parker. Thanks for inviting me.”
“As long as you’re having fun,” he says warmly and takes the candy from me. As the players round up under the basket for a free throw, Parker checks his phone again.
“How’s the Rangers campaign coming along?” I ask.
“The kickoff was pretty solid. We got the new app running, and I’m hearing good feedback on the player spotlights we’ve been doing on socials. I’m hoping we’ll get the fan zones up at Madison Square Garden soon; it’d be good to launch some giveaways.”
I chew my popcorn thoughtfully. “And you oversee all of this?”
“More or less. I’m liking that it’s a lot more hands-on this time,” he says.
“I was on a campaign for the Warriors last season, and we spent most of it buttering up the stakeholders. Even when Venture sent us to Chase Center, we were in the hospitality suites most of the time, so we couldn’t enjoy games like this. ”
The references to us and we stand out to me like beacons in a stormy ocean, because I remember Parker talking about this campaign before. In his Venture office, with Reggie and Isaac present, he’d said it was a big project that required a lot of teamwork between him and . . . Heather.
I hate that my memory is a perdurable vault for all things Parker Tran.
I want to focus on the rest of the game, but my efforts are futile.
Parker is endlessly amused by what’s going on in his phone, and when I sneak a peek, I see the text bombs are indeed from the super sexy Venture group chat.
Someone’s sent a couple photos of a boat in a marina.
The last thing I see before forcing myself to look away is a selfie of a blonde in sunglasses.