Chapter Twenty-Three
Bee
There was nothing like getting the most restful night of sleep after saying how you felt.
Out of all my siblings, I was the only one who could let an argument roll off their back.
Maybe because I was always the fastest with more jabs, and they hurt the most, but I always loved the lightness my body felt after getting everything off my chest.
I by no means totally forgave Nola, but I was willing to freeze my grudge for the bigger picture: dominating the upcoming season as a Miami Wave, and getting a few less people to hate me.
I hummed through my morning routine, eager to get to my first session with the physical therapist. I was blessed to say my only dire injury was an ankle sprain two years ago, and two concussions that same year from a series of unfortunate events.
I whipped out the new juicer, courtesy of the organization, because while I didn’t subscribe to every health nut recommendation, a tasty juice just really got my day right.
I was used to having too much for one day, always resulting in me saving the leftovers and hoping it wouldn’t freak me out later, when I remembered my roommate.
We hadn’t sat down to get to know each other on a roommate level, but I was considering being kind and letting her have the rest of the green juice.
This was big of me. Monumental, even. I was always kind, always begrudgingly thinking of others, but never in a million years did I think I would be nice to Nola.
I snapped a picture and put it in my siblings group chat.
The joke made me laugh aloud, forcing me to hunt for a piece of paper to rip off so I could write a message and leave it in the fridge.
Might be poisoned. Might not be. - Your kind and caring roommate.
And then I added my number too.
I was fresh out of physical therapy when I looked at my phone and saw more alerts than I cared to comprehend right now.
In an attempt to keep an eye on any rumors, discourse, and painfully surface-level critiques of the league, I turned on alert notifications that mentioned my name.
Was this a good idea for my mental health in the long run?
Probably not. But after the first “insider tip” from a few days ago, I wanted to know about every single article and media clip that mentioned my name.
Which had resulted in my favorite articles.
Can the Miami Breeze survive a Young, Lee-led team?
Young v. Lee: Who will be the real star?
Could a Lee/Young court hurt or utterly destroy the Waves?
I honestly wanted to start a burner account just so I could participate in the speculation. It was a good question—a great one, even—and the barely media trained athlete I was, only time would tell was my actual answer.
In my siblings group chat, everyone was trying to coordinate when they could come visit for one of my first games at home in Miami which was conveniently weeks after Celeste and Colette finished their spring semester.
Before I contemplated hosting my little sisters, an email notification from the shipping company came through, letting me know my furniture was getting delivered tonight.
“Yes!” I twirled in the air because, my god, I missed my stuff. I missed my hair accessories, and my sneakers, and heels. I liked the flexibility of dressing femme and tomboy—and, most of all, I missed the collection of pictures that created my gallery wall.
“I didn’t think you’d be that excited to get dinner tonight.” Farrah came up behind me. We both split time in the physical therapist’s office given she was going on one year since her ACL tore, which had only heightened her OCD diagnosis she got when we were in college.
“What are the odds you want to raincheck a fancy, bougie, South Beach dinner in exchange for helping your college best friend unpack?” I batted my eyes and pouted my lips, “I’ll buy us something equally delicious, and I’ll even let you go through the scrapbook.”
“You know I’m a sentimental bitch who loves going down memory lane.” Farrah linked arms with mine as we headed out to the employee lot. “But also like, thank God I won’t have to drive you to practice anymore. You make me too punctual.”
“I’m making a good impression!”
Before I could respond I noticed a text message from an unknown number. I tapped on it, ready to delete the thread and report it as junk until I saw a picture of my fridge and a message.
In the passenger seat, I stared at the message, my mind racing at the question. The mature version of me, wherever she was buried, thought I should acquiesce. Nola was mean four years ago and I’d made it my mission to get her back during every game until she actually apologized.
But I also didn’t want to give her my forgiveness yet. So far, I was the only one making attempts at giving her grace. Trying to be nice even if it didn’t feel natural. I needed her actions to match her words.
I saved Nola’s name in my phone and finally settled into the seat. My mind raced, categorizing what exactly Nola Young could do to get me to see her effort.