Chapter 19
CLAY
The week passes in a blur of airplanes and workouts and other teams’ stadiums. Two road games later, we’re back on the plane heading to Denver.
We lost both games.
On the plane, the pitch-black sky invites the worst kind of thoughts.
Miles watches a video on his phone, sneaking looks at me.
“What?” I grunt, grabbing the phone from his hand.
It’s a clip of me picking a fight with Coach after the third quarter, when he got in my face about my performance. Not because my stat line was in a nosedive, though it was, but because I wasn’t helping my team run the schemes to keep us in it.
Microphones on the video pick up his comments.
“I don’t care if you can’t get a bucket. Get downhill, pass it out, and get these guys running.”
And mine.
“I’m paid too much to pass all night.”
“You’re paid too much not to.”
Instead of falling into line, I got toe to toe with Coach and ripped him a new one.
I was frustrated over Nova and lost my head, letting it all out on someone I shouldn’t have.
He benched me in the fourth.
Didn’t stop me from getting in his face after the microphones were gone.
“Easy for you to tell us what we should be doing, to act like you’ve got all the answers,” I ground out. “Said yourself you’re no better than a pawn between James and Harlan. Either one of them could snap their fingers and fire you. Yeah, you’re real brave.”
I expected him to fine me on the spot.
Instead, he got quiet and walked out. After the game, in the visitors' locker room, I informed Chloe I wasn’t going to do media.
“You weren’t invited,” she replied briskly.
Nova and I haven’t spoken in days, and it’s been fucking terrible.
Half a dozen texts to check in on her, none answered.
I don’t hate that she found out, but it’s how she found out. I was planning to tell her about my deal with Harlan.
But only after I worked out a way to tell Harlan—and everyone—about us.
My head falls back against the leather seat. Emotions claw at my chest, raking talons that reach beneath my ribs to the places I can’t protect with ego or reputation or silence.
She’s hurting, and I can’t fix it.
Not if she won’t answer my texts.
Not when I’m on a plane a thousand miles away.
I need her to understand I wasn’t trying to manipulate her.
A year ago, all I wanted was for my knee to hold up.
It’s been solid for weeks.
So, why does it feel like my life is crumbling?
“I fucked up,” I say.
Miles shifts forward, glancing around the plane. The rest of the team is locked in one-on-one conversations, or sleeping, or watching videos, or listening to music.
“The guys will give you another chance,” he says.
“It’s not the guys I’m worried about,” I admit.
We’re practicing the next day, running plays with the assistant, when Miles calls out, “Where’s Coach?”
I glance at the clock in the corner of the gym. It’s not like him to be late.
I head to the bleachers and grab my phone from my bag. No messages. I punch in his contact.
It rings.
Again.
Voicemail picks up.
“Get your ass here, old man, I’m doing your job and mine. You’re gonna want to take a picture because it’s not happening again.” I click off and rejoin practice.
It’s not an apology, but it’s halfway there.
I crossed a line with Coach. Took shit out on him that wasn’t his fault.
I’ll make it up to him today.
Jayden and the assistant coaches run the team through some drills while I watch.
A few minutes later, Rookie pulls up, looking past me.
“Clay.”
The voice at my back is familiar, but the name isn’t. Harlan never calls me Clay.
I straighten, immediately alert. Something’s wrong.
“What happened?”
The hospital is a mass of hallways and hurrying staff and beeping equipment. My steps overtake the nurse leading us in.
Jay and Miles and Atlas look at me with hollow eyes. Behind them is a row of assistant coaches.
I hate hospitals. My little sister spent too much time in one, and I couldn’t do anything for her. I threw myself into my game because living with the idea that I had no impact was insufferable.
We all wait for an hour.
Two.
Harlan arrives looking tired already. “Thank you all for coming. We don’t have the full details, but we understand Coach’s car went off the road and hit a tree late this afternoon.
The doctors believe it may have resulted from a cardiac incident, but as a result, he’s sustained significant trauma to multiple systems. I understand how much Coach means to you. He’d appreciate knowing you were here.”
“He’ll know once he’s out,” Jay insists.
“That won’t be for some time. In the interim, you should go home and rest,” Harlan says.
One at a time, the guys peel off. Miles first, then Atlas. Rookie. Jayden. The coaching staff too.
I keep pacing the room. Still in my hoodie over a practice jersey, plus shorts, my Kobes on my feet.
“You won’t get to see him tonight.”
I look up to meet Harlan’s eyes.
He rests a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. My attention goes to my knee, the scar there.
Harlan retreats and returns a moment later with faded blue polyester folded in his hands. “At least put these on so you don’t freeze.”
Harlan leaves me with the scrubs. I drop them on the chair and do laps of the ward. People spot me, but the nurses don’t care.
I’m not famous here. I have no power.
I return to the nurse’s station. “Let me see him.”
“You can’t right now, Mr. Wade.” She frowns.
I rub a hand over my face. “I need to see him.”
She starts to argue, but another nurse clears her throat. “You can go in.”
I head into the room full of beeping machines. He’s lying in the bed, tubes and monitors hooked up everywhere. For once, he’s quiet.
There’s no chair, so I get one from the hallway and carry it in.
NOVA
The past week, I’ve been going to the wall.
Literally.
The mural has consumed my waking moments.
But when Brooke came home looking stricken and told me about Coach, I couldn’t sit at home.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the hospital. Through some emotional appeal, the nurses finally allow me in.
Clay is slouched in a tiny visitor's chair at his coach’s bedside.
In the bed, the man who always looked sprightly and energetic is still and pale.
The anger and betrayal I felt seem small compared to the scene in front of me.
I rest a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Hi.”
He doesn’t respond.
I start to pull back, but Clay’s hand covers mine. “Hi.”
“How is he?” I ask.
“Not good.” The words are barely audible.
“How long have you been here?”
“Since practice. Harlan tried to get me to leave.” When his hand falls away, I miss it.
“Harlan was right.” It’s after midnight.
“It was my fault,” he goes on as if he didn’t hear me.
My arms wrap around my body. I’m only now realizing I didn’t put on a coat before coming over.
“You weren’t driving.”
“No, but I gave him hell the other day.”
“Your words didn’t give him a heart attack, or steer him off the road. No one’s that powerful. Not even Clayton Wade.”
He tilts his head up to look at me.
I’m still upset with him, but the downward spiral is familiar. Clay seems intent to stay here all night, which won’t help anyone.
I make an executive decision. “We’re leaving. Give me your keys.”
I hold out a hand, and after a long moment, Clay reaches into his pocket and passes over the fob.
I lead the way out of the hospital. Normally heading through a busy building would mean people snapping pics of Clay, but today, everyone we pass is either sick or working.
Fame can’t trump illness.
We reach the parking lot, and Clay nods toward the section holding his SUV.
“I can drive,” he says.
“I don’t care what you think you can do,” I bite out.
His eyes widen in surprise, but when I round to the driver's seat and get in, he shifts into the other side.
After sliding into his SUV, I move the seat forward a foot and adjust the mirrors.
“I’m sorry.” His voice fills the dark.
“Apologize to Coach when he wakes up.”
“I mean about the deal with Harlan. I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t trust you to choose for yourself.”
The words settle on me, seeping into my skin. I don’t have time to guard against them, and there’s no protection from the raw emotion in his voice.
“Tonight’s not about us.”
I drive him home.
The roads are dark and quiet. I don’t put on the radio.
When we pull up to the building, the garage door lifts automatically. From memory, I navigate to the spot right next to the elevator.
We ride up together, and I sneak a look at him in the fluorescent lights.
I’ve never seen him like this.
He’s always strong.
Now, he’s suffering.
I know what it’s like to have someone ripped from your life with zero notice. To be talking to them one moment, laughing or arguing or debating, and the next they’re gone.
That’s why I won’t let him face this alone, no matter what’s between us.
The wide hallway is lined with subtle, expensive lights.
Clay takes his keys back and unlocks the door.
The lights click on automatically to reveal the familiar, beautifully decorated space.
The foyer leads into the white granite-swathed kitchen and, on the other side, the massive living room with low couches and a huge TV.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
He shakes his head.
I take in what he’s wearing. His knee looks swollen. “You should ice that.”
“Later.”
“At least have a shower.”
Clay pulls his sweatshirt off over his head, the jersey beneath coming with it.
An angry purple splotch has my breath catching. “What happened?”
“I dunno.”
I stroke a finger across it. He seems strong, but he’s human too.
I walk through his place to the master bedroom and bathroom. The light turns on when I step inside. I reach the shower and turn the handle.
Behind me, he stands stock still, his gaze fixed partway down the wall. I start to brush past him, but he grabs my wrist.
“Don’t go.” His thumb strokes my pulse point. His gorgeous dark eyes are full of fear and guilt and regret. “I know I don’t deserve it. But I can’t watch you leave. Not tonight.”
He wraps me in his arms, crushing me hard to his chest. My heart hammers between us, my eyes stinging with tears.
In the time we’ve been together, he’s never hugged me. If you can even call this a hug. It’s like he’s clinging to a rock to avoid being swept out to sea.
I know what it’s like to lose people and blame yourself. I want to hold him here for as long as I can.
“I care about you. So fucking much,” he rumbles into my neck. “You wanted your sister back and a fresh start. I’m a lightning rod and a mess. Your best shot was staying far away from me.”
His words gut me. I know he believes he was helping, even if that was a fucked-up way to do it.
The tattoos twining around his arms and chest could be ropes tying him down.
I’m not ready to let it go, but I can’t retreat from him either. It’s harder and harder to keep up my guard, even if my heart will get bruised.
“I didn’t want to stay away from you,” I whisper against his bare chest. My fingers dig into the smooth skin of his back.
Clay swallows hard enough that I feel it.
“Me either.”
It’s not your fault, I want to tell him.
I show him instead.