Chapter 7
CLAY
“You’re late,” Miles tells Rookie as he comes in the door.
“I dropped Wade’s laundry off in the wrong place.”
Hollers echo off the aging walls as Rookie slides into the booth with a grin.
Mile High feels as close to home as anywhere. In contrast to some of the shiny new spots, this one has history. Old oak booths, faded paint, dull gold taps, and smiling faces. It’s the team’s unofficial brewery.
“Clay, can I get you another beer?” the waitress asks. The service here is already good, but she’s extra attentive to me over the other guys.
I shake my head.
Earlier this year, I loaned money to the owner, who was struggling to make rent after the landlord jacked the prices after thirty years—on the condition he kept it between us. Don’t want anyone thinking I’m a bleeding heart.
In fact, it’s easier if I have a reputation for being difficult because it keeps people from messing with me—in the game and in life.
It’s been a long day. Between practice, watching tape, and a sponsor engagement, I haven’t had a minute to relax.
But it’s getting near the season.
People have this idea athletes can eat anything they want, but the opposite is true. You want to be competitive in this league for a long time, you have to pay attention to the details.
“Why do you put up with running his errands, Rookie?” Miles tosses after the waitress departs.
“There another option?”
The other guys laugh.
It’s normal for rookies to pull some chores first year. Everyone just assumed he’d be my rookie because our games are the most similar style. Plus, I’m the biggest star, and he’s arguably the future.
Playing with me will set him up for a pro career. Rookie wants to watch me, listen to me, learn from me. Hoping some of the shine will rub off on him.
Thing is, I never signed on to be a mentor. I’ve got enough of my own shit to handle.
“You think scoring will be easy because I’m here?” I drawl.
“Hell yeah. You’ll be pulling all the defenses,” Rookie tosses back.
“Which gives you touches. But you gotta make ‘em,” I point out. “Put the work in so when the ball’s in your hands, you can do your job. And next year, if you survive that long, you won’t be the new kid. They’ll have you scouted up to here.” I lift a hand. “Then I can’t protect you.”
The first year of my rookie season, I started every game, was an all-star at twenty-one.
I got any shot I wanted, on or off the court.
More than that, I adapted. Sophomore slump is a real thing, but I worked harder on my game, my body, my head than anyone else and came out stronger.
Fast forward seven years of more or less smooth sailing—at least as much as they can be in the NBA.
I was put on this earth to play basketball, but last year, I got a rude reminder of how fragile this can all be.
I’m not about to tap out, or step back, or let anyone ruin my shot.
A text comes through from my agent.
I’m working on some options for the start of the season. We’re keeping it discreet like you asked.
I exhale hard.
Never thought of myself as someone who keeps secrets. But lately, I leave out a lot more than I say. Even with Jay, the guy who’s the closest thing I have to a best friend.
These guys are my team, but they don’t get what I’ve been through.
They don’t know what it’s like to stare down the barrel of your career, your future, and know how close you came to it all being over.
The smallest misstep and it will be over.
This Kodiaks team will be better than last year. Top eight in the West, maybe top six if Rookie delivers and my body holds up to the grind of the season.
But there’s a big difference between sixth in the West and first in the league.
If I want to make it to the top of the mountain, I might not have a lot of years to do it.
A group of women walk by, sneaking looks at us and giggling.
They’re objectively attractive, but I can’t bring myself to care.
It’s been two days since I left the number on Nova’s hand.
I haven’t heard a sound from her. Forty-eight hours of practice and life and not a damned peep.
The way she looked at me in the bathroom of that plane, like she fucking saw me, was addictive.
Maybe I misread.
The fact that most women in this town would let me buy them a drink—and a healthy number of those would wait in the bathroom with open legs—doesn’t soothe my ego.
They’re not her.
Forget it. What were you going to do with Harlan’s sister-in-law anyway?
As if on command, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number: Hey, it’s Nova. I hope this is the right number, or I’m going to feel like an idiot.
Her pretty face in my mind wipes away my tortured thoughts.
I type back.
Clay: Who are you looking for?
Unknown number: Tall. Grumpy. Writes on people with permanent marker.
I reach for a water in the center of the table and down it.
Clay: Doesn’t sound like me.
Miles cracks up at something Jay said. Atlas’s shoulders rock so hard the table shakes.
Unknown number: I want my tattoo.
They’re only words, but they send a surge of adrenaline through me.
I shouldn’t say yes. She’s Harlan’s family, or practically, which means I can’t trust her. Plus, Jay’s right that I need to focus on my game and not get distracted by a pretty face.
But she’s a lifeline.
I’m surrounded by my guys, but I feel alone.
Clay: I’m coming.
I pocket the phone.
“Wait, where you going?” Miles calls as I shift out of the booth.
“Out.”
I signal the waitress to tell her to put the team’s drinks on my tab, then I head out of the bar without a backward glance.