Chapter 4 #2
The house came furnished, but I’ve been setting up our belongings and ordering things we need.
Clay had most of his things shipped from Denver.
I buy some new art supplies using my money from the mural and arrange the ones he got me in the room we decided would be my studio.
Plus, I paint the entire house. He said we could hire someone, but having a roller or brush in my hand makes me feel more myself.
At Clay’s first home game in LA, I’m introduced to a couple of other wives and girlfriends. They’re nice, but they remind me of the Kodashians back in Denver—only more tanned with sleek waist-length hair, body-skimming outfits, and heels so high I’d need an insurance policy to wear them.
The team gets a win, but there’s not the same excitement within the team as when Denver wins. It feels more like an expectation coming to reality.
Or maybe the chemistry isn’t there with LA.
Yet.
It’s not there yet.
The next afternoon, I take a break from painting to turn on the TV. I’ve just watched a few minutes of Denver playing Boston out East when Clay comes in the front door.
“The place looks good,” he comments, crossing to the couch and dropping a kiss on my head.
“Yeah? I was thinking I should work on the gardens next. They need more color. Which reminds me. I need to get my hair done.” I found a few places to freshen up my pink strands.
Clay reaches for his gym bag and pulls out an envelope.
“What’s that?” I ask as he passes it over. I rip it open to find a black credit card with my name on it.
“I have a credit card.”
“Yeah, but this is on my account. Don’t argue,” he starts before I can.
“You might regret this. When was the last time you gave a woman access to your bank account?” I tease.
“Never.” The seriousness on his face makes my chest squeeze.
“Thanks,” I murmur. “I’ll try to resist pulling a Julia Roberts and buying up Rodeo Drive.”
“If it makes you smile, I want you to.”
Gahhhh.
He glances toward the TV and does a double take. “Why’re you watching that?”
“I wanted to see how our friends are doing,” I say as he sits next to me, making the massive couch sink under his weight.
On the screen, Denver is scrapping intently. Jay and Rookie, Miles and Atlas, plus a new guy who came as part of the trade with LA.
“Rookie’s gotten to the free throw line three times since I turned the TV on, and he made all of them.”
“Oh yeah?” I hear the humor in Clay’s voice as his lips brush my ear.
I smile too. “Mhmm. And Miles has been good from three. Jay’s still trying to figure out schemes with the new guy.”
“I see.” Clay reaches an arm around my waist absently. “You think you know everything about basketball?”
“Some things,” I agree, and he chuckles. “It feels weird, watching them from a distance. When was the last time you talked to the guys?”
“The gala.”
My mouth falls open. “You haven’t talked to any of them? Even by text?”
He shakes his head and heads toward our room. “At the end of the day, it’s business.”
He’s away on the East Coast for two games when I call Mari.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m still craving cheese. I blame it on the baby.”
I laugh.
“I have sono pics. Want to see?”
My mouth falls open. “Of course!”
It takes a minute for my phone to buzz, and I hurry to click into the black-and-white image.
“Oh my God. The baby is perfect.”
She snorts. “It’s a bean. You can’t see anything yet.”
“No, I totally can. It’s got a huge brain. And an even bigger heart,” I insist as she laughs. “And everyone will love them so much.”
Mar’s quiet for a minute but finally sighs. “I hope so. How are things for you and Clay?”
“We’re figuring it out. I’d never say it to Clay, but I miss Denver.”
At night after the games, Clay calls and we talk for an hour.
I ask him about each game, but he steers the conversation to what I’m doing, or the city he’s in, or how the house is.
We end up having phone sex, and I fall asleep in the California king bed, my body humming from the long-distance orgasm and ocean of space beside me.
During the days, I’ve been painting in my growing studio. I got so used to painting the mural every day that it feels strange not to have that be my focus.
The money from the commission is sitting in my account, but there’s been limited interest since the gala. If I want to make a career at this, I need to keep working.
On a morning walk, a billboard for a modern dance performance stopped me in my tracks. I went to see it by myself that afternoon and was swept up in the artistry of it.
Over the next three days, I paint the dancer. I pull from my memory and from supplemental images I find online. As the sunlight streams into my studio, I draw and paint, and my heart feels full in a way it hasn’t since coming to LA.
Brooke comes to visit for a weekend while Clay is on the road, and we go for dinner and shopping and to Huntington Beach and to see a show.
As we head out of the theater, I say, “Can I ask you about your brother?”
“Miss Denver enough you want to date him instead?” she replies dryly.
I laugh. “No, I mean about what happened when Clay left. I didn’t expect it to cause such a rift. Clay says it’s only business, but I don’t believe that.”
More than that, I don’t believe him. That it’s nothing personal for him. Clay misses those guys. He might even feel responsible for what happened. But he won’t talk to me about it. We’re spending more time alone together than we ever have, but he’s even more of a mystery.
“Jay understands how the league works. He’s been in it as long as Clay. But it’s a weird system. As an influencer, I decide who I work with and when and for how much. I choose my partnerships, and I can end one for any reason. If I’m exhausted, I can take a break.
“But as a pro athlete, they pay you enough money and you stop being a human. You’re a god, but you’re also a commodity.
A rare, expensive one, like a diamond. Everyone around you worships you, but it’s all about getting the most out of you until you’re used up—the most points, the most endorsements, the most cash.
People buy and sell you, trade you and show you off, and expect you to be grateful because it’s done by the rules of the player agreement, and at the end of the day, you have a house in Malibu and three ex-wives to show for it. ”
I arch a brow. “That’s a very specific example.”
We head down the street, through the crowds of well-dressed Californians, sunglasses on their heads and sandals on their feet.
“My brother is loyalty first, the job second. There’ve been times in his career he could’ve gotten ahead at the cost of someone else, but he didn’t do it.
Chances to make more money and sell his soul, but he won’t,” Brooke says.
“When we were kids, our mom always said, ‘None of it’s worth it if you can’t live with yourself. ’ He took that to heart.”
We stop at a corner, waiting for a light to change. “I wish Clay could square things with the guys.”
“Distance makes it hard.”
“But they’re coming to town next week.”
An idea grabs me, and I grin at my friend.
Brooke’s eyes narrow. “What are you planning?”