Chapter 17
CLAY
“We’ve got movement.” My agent’s voice comes over the crackling phone.
“Tell me.” The sun bakes my neck as I pace from my car to the office building. It’s a fair distance from my condo, but I have a solid reason for making the drive.
“There’s interest from Phoenix. And Boston.”
“That’s it?” I yank open the door and stalk to the stairwell. I don’t want to be seen in the elevator, though staff are discreet. Normally, I’ll tolerate requests for selfies and autographs, but not today.
“Last week, I would’ve said yes. But I just got a call from LA.”
My grip tightens. “And?”
“They’re interested. They caught the game, plus some workout tape.”
I take the stairs two at a time. Even the four flights won’t have me breaking a sweat. The benefits of fitness and all. “How’d they get that?”
“I sent it to them.”
At the top, I step into the main hallway and stop in front of a hardwood door with a brass plaque on the front.
“They make Harlan an offer?” I ask.
“Not yet. I think they want to see how the preseason shakes down and how your knee holds up.”
I grimace. Wait and see. It’s management’s favorite setting. As if basketball is some comprehensible system and all the unknowns will become clear with just a little more time.
“Maybe they’re concerned you’re not back to a hundred percent. That the injury’s going to flare up.”
“They’re wrong.”
“Course they are. They want to watch a few games, that’s all.”
I click off.
The twinge of discomfort I felt in our first game was back in practice today. Not that I told anyone. I played through it, and I’ll keep playing through it.
A text appears on my phone from Nova with one word:
Done.
I click it and find the drawing she started. It sucks the air from my chest. She finished the one of me on the bench. There’s skill in every stroke, but there’s knowing, too.
Nova’s been living rent free in my head ever since the barbeque.
The way she opened up for me, the way she hummed when my lips stroked her skin, it only made me want more.
“Clay.”
I look up to see my therapist hovering in the doorway.
“You’re right on time.”
I follow him inside. A few minutes later, I’m taking up half of his couch, and he’s perched in his chair.
“Good to see you. It’s been a little while.”
“Someone reminded me talking can help.”
If I’m going to spend any more time around Nova, I can’t shut her out like I did after the game.
And I do want to spend time around her. With all that’s going on, I’ve decided not to look too hard at the reasons.
She’s here for her sister. And me, I’ve got shit to figure out. My career comes first, but I can’t kick the idea that there could be more to me than basketball.
“How was the game?” he asks.
“It was a win.”
“But?”
I tug on the cord in my hoodie and clench my jaw, searching for the words to explain the team's stagnation. “It's not enough. This team has a ceiling, but nobody will admit it.”
“Maybe they just need someone to get them going, something to focus on,” he says.
I shake my head. “You either have what it takes to beat the best or you don't. We don't.”
He crosses one ankle over his knee and looks at me calmly. “Maybe you think you don't have it in you to lead because you've never tried.”
My heart starts to race. I can never be a leader. Being responsible for every move of an entire franchise would be too much for me to bear with a knee that still twinges with pain at the wrong movement.
I put enough expectations on myself to be the best for myself, for my career and my fans, my agent, and all the people who’ve gotten me where I am.
“You don't understand—I have to leave," I say, turning away from him and pacing around the room.
“Then why don't you?”
I stop pacing and face him, meeting his eye contact with a determined stare of my own. “I'm working on it."
The clock on the wall ticks loudly.
“Once you’re in LA and you’ve won a championship, what then?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You’re already one of the best. Everyone agrees to it. You’d need something else to fight for.”
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “You sound like someone else I know.”
“Speaking of, how is your sister?”
“She’s in grad school. Training to be like you, actually.”
That’ll be a treat.
“You feel guilt over what happened,” he says.
“I’ll always have that.”
“Because you love her.”
“Obviously. She’s my little sister.”
“But?”
“But I let her down. I was supposed to look out for her, and instead, I was doing basketball. It’s the only thing I’m good at. I gave up everything for this. It’s who I am. If I’m not the best, then what the fuck am I?”
“You seem more agitated than in our last few sessions. Has something changed?”
Nothing. Nothing has changed, except…
Her face flashes in my mind.
“I met a woman. It was completely random.”
It felt like fate.
“She makes me question things.”
Like whether basketball is the only thing I want in my life.
At the party, having Nova in my arms was the closest I’ve felt to freedom in a long time. I don’t have to perform when I’m with her. She sees beyond the image to the man underneath.
“I want to be around her,” I say.
“But?”
“But the last time I wanted to be around someone ended badly.” My chest tightens as the words come out.
He shifts forward in his seat, eyes brightening. I’ve just fed him some prime therapist catnip shit. “What happened?”
The pain in my chest never completely goes away. It’s been better over the years, but it still lingers. “I was serious about her, and she was serious about fucking the GM of our team behind my back for months.”
The ache intensifies as I think of the way I felt when I found out. The hurt. The anger.
“That must have been painful.”
“The organization covered it up.”
In the name of winning, they hid the truth. As if I was too fragile or stupid to handle it. As if I was a machine and not a man.
It was a reminder that they valued winning more than truth or respect for me.
“And that was the start of your struggles.”
I nod, my mouth dry.
What he means is it was the start of the darkest moments.
Not knowing who I wanted to be or if I even wanted to be at all. Drinking too much, sleeping all day, and avoiding workouts were just some of the ways I tried to fill the void.
My teammates began to look at me like I had no hope of recovery, and they weren't wrong.
It took Jay, who played for a rival team, to get me started on the right path again and get me back on track to Finals.
It also made me lose trust in anyone in a suit.
Ultimately, it taught me what I needed to focus on: being on the court and playing basketball with everything that I had.
“What would it take to open yourself up to connecting with another person? Without judgment or cynicism?” my therapist asks.
“A miracle.”
But Nova’s face appears in my mind, and despite the years of baggage and rejection of everything that’s not basketball, I want to try.