Chapter Eight
Nola
“You’re smiling without your teeth too much.
” Daya elbowed my side as we stepped out of the black SUV the Waves sent to our hotel to take us to the Palmoil Arena.
She was a foot shorter, so her elbow landed right at my waist. Her middle part, low bun accentuated round features that didn’t scream don’t fuck with me or my clients, but when paired with her deep crimson red lip, little did people know.
“It’s the best I can give you right now.
” I said at normal pitch, thankful there were no overbearing paparazzi or eager sports fans trying to catch me off my game.
It had been two months since my talk with Henry, and one month since the Violets officially announced my mom’s hiring.
Since the announcement, there’d been a whirlwind of speculation and analysis on what that meant for the team—and also me—because no one knew about my upcoming deal.
Can the Violets survive a Young duo?
Nepotism at its finest: Young to head coach, Young to star again
Going back to my apartment felt like what I imagined coming home to the ex you still lived with felt like.
Looking at the skyline made me nauseated, staring at my first championship ring made me woozy, but the strongest feeling I had was an overwhelming sense of dread.
I was used to proving myself; fighting for the time to step out of my parent’s shadow and show the world I was my own person.
Sure, opportunities were granted to me, but then I actually showed my skillset and IQ.
Nepotism helped me get this far, but I’m still here because of me.
And yet this was the first time something was ripped from me because of my parents. The first thing that truly felt like mine—roots I wanted to plant and grow beneath the earth because of the work I did—taken from me.
The worst feeling of all of this was that I knew why. Logically, it made sense. I didn’t need to justify the decision made, because if I were Henry I might’ve done the same thing.
It sucked that the Young legacy with the Chicago Violets would come from Olivia, not me.
For a month now, I’d been staying with Daya even though all three of my parents, Rashida, Allison, and Evie kept trying to get me to pick up the phone. The only person I continued to answer was Olive, and if she wanted to be my family town crier then so be it.
“Alright,” Daya started, “I know this signing process has been unconventional—”
“A lot has been unconventional,” I interjected.
“But Miami won’t shut up about how excited they are to have you!”
“And just to confirm again…”
“Owners were absolutely not involved in the negotiation process.” Daya nodded, knowing I wanted to avoid more family drama.
Like with most things in my life, I met Daya through basketball.
Her older brother and I played for the same travel team organization, and her commentary on family bus rides had gotten many laughs out of me.
She hated men, and I hated try-hards. One time I threw up on her, but she didn’t laugh at my pain—we were a match made in heaven.
By the time we made it to college she was the only volleyball player living in our apartment.
And we’d been a package deal ever since.
I was going from leaving a team that wouldn’t resign me because of my mom, to a team that my aunts co-owned.
I would be the first to call this decision insane, but despite Miami’s constant humidity, when Daya approached me with the top three teams willing to spend a hefty chunk of their salary budget on me, my gut had practically screamed to go to the Waves.
While I was protected from their expansion draft last season, there was something about being part of a team resurrected from the dead that made me feel less miserable about leaving my old team.
The head coach was a Black woman my mom and aunt played with in the Olympics, Tashi Blade, who was able to get the Waves to the first round of play-offs last year.
I played enough against them and studied their footage enough to know they could use a dynamic forward and guard, and I was here to answer their call.
Plus, maybe I thought I would look great in their cobalt blue and turquoise uniforms.
We were met at the backdoor by a young man who looked barely older than Olive. His phone was held up with a rig in his right hand, and he held a smaller camera with his left.
“Here we go,” I mumbled, no stranger to the need for content from players and teams these days.
“Nola Young! It is so cool…” The kid tried to extend his hand as if he forgot a camera was attached. He then tried the same with the opposite hand, getting the same result.
“Oh, Jesus,” Daya muttered.
“Um, alright, let me just put these down.” The kid’s skin was tan with a golden undertone, his hair faded on the sides, but long enough on top that his curls slightly flopped onto his forehead.
“I’m Marcello! I’m the social team’s intern for the spring.” He extended his hand, and I shook with all my strength. He only winced slightly before shaking rigorously then he moved to Daya, his eyes immediately doing the closest version of heart eyes.
“Nice to meet you Marcello. Do you have a boss?” she inquired because if the first Waves representation we were meeting was an intern, we already had problems.
“Yes! You’ll meet Nina shortly. I’ll walk you over to her now.” Marcello picked up his gear, forgetting he needed hands to open doors, then put it down and opened the door for us.
“What a gentleman.” Daya snarked, only meant for my ears.
“I try, you know. I think it’s such a privilege that I get to work in women’s sports,” Marcello rambled.
“You don’t say.” I egged him on because I wanted to see if he actually meant anything coming out of his mouth. “When did you start watching?”
“Oh, always! I’m the baby of the family—only boy, too—so I grew up watching my sisters play soccer and volleyball.”
Okay, maybe he wasn’t full of shit.
“Did they play in college?” Daya asked as we continued to walk down a long hall.
The Miami Waves shared a stadium with the men’s team, but given we were close to the season starting, the walls were lined with action shots and team portraits from the Waves’ first game in ’96, to their last. I recognized a lot of the women’s faces, people I’d passively met over the years either through my mom or playing against their daughters in college.
As beautiful as it was to see this history, it felt like I was actively cheating on a girlfriend.
I was walking through the bowels of another arena, seeing what a well-founded and widely-supported franchise looked like. And man, was this shit nice.
Marcello stopped drooling over Daya and picked up his cameras again, the red dots indicating they were actively recording.
“What’s with the double duty?” I asked because, yes, content was important, but this was just supposed to be a simple signing with the new team members.
“Uh…” Marcello started to turn red. “We’re just really excited about you being here, Nola.
And meeting Nina, and also—” He didn’t get to finish his sentence because on the opposite end of the hallway, I noticed a tall woman clad in jeans and a Waves t-shirt.
She was flocked by a man and a woman who had uncannily similar features, and a third figure I’d befriended, ignored, fought with, beaten, and lost against.
A figure whose lips left a phantom sensation I couldn’t get out of my head for the longest time.
Oh shit.