Chapter 5
CLAY
“Utah are grinders on defense.” Coach points at the screen in the dark theater room. “Watch these rotations.”
We’re reviewing game tape in our team meeting, and I shift back, extending my legs over the seat in front of me. Utah is technically sound but not as physical as LA.
Which is why instead of going over matchups, my mind cuts to wondering if a certain pink-haired princess is occupying a hallway a few hundred feet from here.
Now that I know how bad I hurt her, I can’t think of anything else.
She’s under my skin, in my blood, on my brain.
I’ve built an exceptional career being a selfish prick, but where she’s concerned…
I hate living in a world where she thinks I’m an asshole.
I don’t live my life regretting where I’ve been, but I can’t help wondering if I made the wrong call with her.
With us.
“… we’re going to make the playoffs, we gotta take Utah for three of four.”
The playoffs. I’m trying not to think that far ahead because if everything goes to plan, I won’t be in a Kodiaks uniform, but the excited rumble through the room makes it impossible to ignore.
Harlan promised to get me out, but for the time being, I’m still here, surrounded by guys who want to win in this city—for this city.
A hand goes up. Rookie. “We can get through them. They’ll be playing catch-up the entire night.”
Miles hollers and fist-bumps Rookie.
“Wade,” Coach barks, and all heads turn toward me. “You’ve played Utah plenty. Got any input?”
“I can get past their guards. Center’s a step slow.”
“What about for the rest of the team?”
I pause. “That’s above my paygrade.”
Later, on my way out of the room, Coach grabs me. “I need you to step up. You’re used to seeing the game for you, but the next evolution is you seeing it for all of them.”
I cock my head. “Next evolution of my game is holding the MVP trophy at finals.”
He swears. “You don’t get there without four other guys. This game isn’t only about stars, Wade. Someone has to take responsibility for this team.”
“That’s your job, old man.”
“What about when I’m gone?”
I scoff. “You’re gonna outlive us all in this league.”
After banging out the routine, my muscles are straining and my lungs burning. I grab a towel and wipe down, watching Rookie do lunges across the gym.
I’m never gonna be the leader Coach wants. I’m too focused on my own game.
But in the young guy working his ass off on the other side of the floor, I see a piece of myself.
“Your handle’s not gonna work against him,” I tell Rookie gruffly, naming one of the guards on the opposing team. “He’ll pick your pocket all night long. Best you can do is try to switch onto the four or five.”
His brows rise, his breath straining as he repeats the movement. “You don’t think I can take him?”
Doesn’t matter what I think, what matters is what Rookie thinks. What he’s committed to doing.
And there’s uncertainty in his eyes.
I might not know how to fix things with Nova, but this, I can fix.
“I bet you five large you can’t take him,” I say.
Rookie grins against the effort. “I’ll prove it to you.”
NOVA
There is no better companion for painting than Lizzo. She’s the best friend you never knew you needed cheering you on.
While she's been blasting from my headphones, I’ve painted the skyline twice.
It’s the part of the wall that will be the grandest but also the most straightforward.
The individual components are inanimate—buildings don’t have souls until they’re filled with people—while the other pieces of the mural will be more challenging to get right.
It’s not enough that the brushstrokes are accurate. They have to feel alive.
Bumping into Clay at Chloe’s party had my emotions running high.
I still get hot thinking about how he slipped his huge hand over my thigh as if my body was his to command.
Hot with anger. Not arousal.
I swore I wouldn’t get off to him. It was part of the deal I made myself when I lit his jersey on fire.
No more fantasizing about Clayton Wade.
I didn’t plan on telling him how much he'd hurt me, but there was a flicker of shock and regret on his face when I did.
Well, I’m over it. Clay's used to getting what he wants when he wants it and casting it aside just as fast.
In the past week, I’ve been here early every morning working on the skyline that will form the foundation of the first part of the mural. It feels good to be making progress.
I tug the headphones off and step down for a break when I hear my name.
“Nova.”
I spin, wiping at my brow. “Hi, Mr. Parker.”
“James,” he says. “How is my wall? I need a photo to show stakeholders.”
“Soon,” I say.
James glances at his watch before meeting my eyes again with a smile. “By five?”
My stomach lurches as I realize how quickly I'll have to finish in order for it to be presentable for a photo.
His tone implies that if it's not done by then, there will be consequences for me personally. I read the paperwork as thoroughly as I could, but who knows if he could withhold my paycheck or maybe even fire me and start over with another artist?
“Of course,” I say, trying to sound confident.
My mind spins as I try to calculate how much more time it will take me to finish up this one area of the mural while being careful not to mess with anything else.
My back is already sore from bending and stretching, and I rub my hip absently as I survey what still needs to be done.
Three hours later, I’m still stretched out, my muscles complaining. I haven’t stopped for a bathroom break or anything else in as long as I can remember.
Why the hell did I promise to get this done today?
There’s one spot that’s high enough I might need a new ladder, but facilities hasn’t responded to my call and I don’t have time to go hunting for them.
My headphone batteries die, and I toss them onto my bag at the foot of the ladder. Even Lizzo has quit for the day.
I bend my forehead against the ladder and press my palm to my face.
“The Thinker. It’s a famous statue.”
Clay’s voice has me dragging a raw breath through my lungs.
He's obviously finished practice, wearing a camel Vuitton sweater and jeans. The dark lines trailing out from under the pushed-up sleeves make my thighs clench.
“Didn’t peg you as a Rodin fan.”
“I’ve seen most of his works, but I prefer The Kiss.”
I look up at him, wary. “Because it’s romantic?”
“Because it’s tragic. A noblewoman who fell in love with her husband’s younger brother. In Dante’s Inferno, they were condemned to wander hell for their sins.”
Okay, I’m not at all interested in Clay’s knowledge of art.
I try once more to stretch and reach, but I can’t. I screech in frustration and drop back to my heels.
“What’s wrong?”
“With us?” I’m incredulous.
“No, I mean right now.”
I want to tell him to get out of here, but I’m intimidated by the owner’s demand and frazzled about how best to comply.
I nod toward the wall. “James wants this done today so he can show some board members the progress. I need to finish that part.” I point toward the top corner. “And I already chipped two nails trying, which sucks because Brooke and I only got them done yesterday.”
I hold out my hand as if the broken nails are proof of something broken in me.
Clay looks between me and the wall. “Come here.”
I stiffen.
“If you don’t get down from there"—he nods toward the ladder—"I can’t get up.”
What?
He means…
Oh.
“You can’t,” I say plainly. “You don’t have the right technique.”
“I’m good with my hands.”
Now, I’m remembering the feel of him touching me. What would have happened if I hadn’t gotten up and run out?
I shove the thoughts down.
“You don’t listen,” I contend. “You do things your own way, and if you don’t do them my way, you’ll ruin it.”
“It’s sky. How bad can I fuck that up? And if I do, you paint over it.”
Okay, technically he’s not wrong.
I cut him a look. “I’m surprised you’re admitting it’s possible for you to fuck up.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I fuck up plenty, Nova.”
It’s not an apology, but there’s a hint of humility in the words.
Clay gaze lowers to the airbrush in my hands. “We’ll do this your way. Talk me through it.”
I don’t want him to be part of my art, forever part of this installation that’s mine.
But the other option is not completing this milestone for the owner.
So, I step down carefully, moving to the side and holding out the airbrush. Our fingers brush as he takes it. Clay takes three steps up the ladder, then another two without pausing. He’s already taller than I was.
“Your knee—” I start.
“I can play basketball, I can stand on a ladder.”
He leans toward the corner in question, and my heart leaps into my throat. This was a bad idea. He could still ruin this. Or fall and hurt himself and be useless to the team.
I should find facilities and get their help.
But he’s already sizing up the area to paint.
“Go slow,” I say. “Don’t press, squeeze lightly. The color looks like it’s not coming out at first, but it is.”
Clay’s face scrunches up in concentration, the same way as when he’s analyzing a defense to break down.
The blue mists onto the wall, and my breath catches.
“Move around,” I say quickly. I should have led with that. “Smooth strokes, nothing jerky.”
He does what I say, and the rich color floods the wall. I keep guiding him with my voice.
“That’s not bad,” I admit.
His mouth curves at the corner. “You like telling me what to do.”
“Only when you listen.”
The low sound from his throat could be a muffled chuckle, and damn if it doesn’t make my chest ache.
It’s not as if he cares about me.
He went out of his way to make sure I knew that.
Maybe he didn’t realize how much he hurt me when he broke things off, and now he feels guilty about it.
But as I watch him work, the deliberateness of every stroke, it softens me.
I’m remembering how good it felt to be with him. How I swore I saw him and he saw me. He’s the first person who really believed in me as an artist.
“Stop,” I bark after ten or fifteen minutes of me directing him.
He looks down, quizzical.
I survey the wall in its entirety. “I think that’s it.”
Clay steps down and holds out the airbrush.
We’re standing too close, and I take a stiff step back. “Could you move the ladder?”
He carries it easily a dozen steps away before returning.
I’m scanning the wall with a critical eye when I glance over and spot droplets of blue on his expensive sweater.
My stomach sinks.
I grab his arm without thinking, tugging at the fabric to see if the stain was a trick of the light.
No luck. There’s an aqua mist drying on half his forearm.
“Oh no…”
One time, Brad’s white shirt got a paint stain on it. He was annoyed for weeks, and it probably cost a fraction of what Clay’s wearing.
“Hey.” He lifts my chin with his finger and forces me to look up at the straight nose, dark eyes, and firm lips I’ve traced so often in my dreams. “I don’t give a shit about the sweater.”
Suddenly, I’m thinking of how we laughed at Red Rocks, running across the landscape. The night he held me at his place after the ruined bachelorette party—
My attention jerks back to the wall.
I lift my phone and adjust the filters so the light bathes every inch of the buildings, sky, clouds, and birds.
I snap a picture, inspecting the image with the same intensity.
Is that part of the sky uneven, or is it just the light?
I lift my finger to point at the wall. “Right there. I should probably fix…”
“Nova.” He grabs my hand out of the air, squeezing it in his. “It’s beautiful.”
My stomach flutters. In the moment before I pull away, his fingers feel like a lot of things.
Guilt isn’t one of them.