Chapter 6
NOVA
September
“Relax. See how deep you can take it.”
The tension up my thighs intensifies, but I try not to resist it.
My eyes shut. I exhale and bend farther, my nose grazing my knees.
The barre class is full of eager students ready to do whatever the toned, middle-aged instructor says.
“Deeper, baby,” a woman with blond hair whispers to the red-haired woman next to me.
The red-haired woman snorts.
“Imagine there’s a line connecting your heart to your legs.”
“There is. It’s called a blood vessel.” The blonde again.
This time, the redheaded woman’s shoulders rock, and a laugh escapes. She turns toward me, grinning as her bright blue eyes meet mine. She looks vaguely familiar, but it’s the humor on her face that makes me bite my cheek.
“If you’re going to be disruptive in class, I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to leave.” We all straighten as the woman leading the barre session gestures to the group. “Right, everyone?”
Her eyes land on me, and I shrug. “I thought it was funny.”
The teacher’s penciled brows slide up her forehead as she points at the door. “Out! All three of you.”
We bolt for the changeroom, heads down, in a silent line.
Inside my locker, my phone is showing one new text.
Dee: I have offers on the table, and I’ve used every excuse in the book. Please use whatever magic you have. I’m begging you.
I didn’t realize things had gotten this out of hand.
I start to type out a quick text to Clay but get interrupted.
“Sorry, that was my bad,” the redheaded woman says to me, and my gaze snaps up.
She’s pale and freckled compared to the usually tan people I’ve come to recognize in LA but strikingly beautiful. She and her friend look around my age, maybe a few years older.
“Still have half an hour. Think coffee will have the same strengthening effect as barre?” she goes on.
“On your brain,” the blonde supplies, and they both laugh.
My lips twitch too.
“I’m Annie,” says the redhead, “and this is Elle.”
“Nova.” I push the hair from my face and lower my phone.
“Why don’t you join us?” Annie asks. “The least we can do is buy you a drink after getting you kicked out of barre.”
It’s better than trying to decide what to do about the fact we’re weeks from the start of the season and Clay has no contract and, evidently, isn’t speaking to his agent.
The three of us head down the block to a nearby café. The ever-present sunshine beats down, and I tug my sunglasses out of my bag and slip them on my face. It’s instinct after the past few months here.
“This place has the best lattes. I’d sell my appendix for one,” Annie says as she holds the door for me to go in first.
“That’s hardly a sacrifice. No one needs their appendix,” Elle counters.
“My liver?”
“That one you do need.”
“I love this place,” I say. “I draw in here sometimes.”
“Are you an artist?” Elle asks as we line up at the counter behind another pair of women talking, little dogs clutched in their arms.
It’s the first time someone’s asked me that in a long time.
I pull out my phone and show them my social feed.
Annie scrolls, her eyes widening, and Elle nods slowly.
“This is amazing,” Annie says as she surveys the posts of dancers, athletes, kids playing. “Is this why you’ve been taking barre, to study dancers?”
“Annie’s a dancer. A real one,” Elle volunteers, and Annie rolls her eyes. “And a singer and an actor and a writer.”
“Elle’s exaggerating.”
We’re ordering our drinks, Annie pulling out a credit card before I can even offer to pay, when suddenly her face clicks in my mind.
“You’re Annie Jamieson.”
She’s the daughter of one of the biggest rock stars the world has ever known, and she’s married to another of them. She also sang the national anthem at one of the playoff games in LA this year.
“I heard you were amazing on Broadway. I hope you’re returning someday?”
“I’m on a stage break since my daughter’s two. I almost miss the days of eight performances a week.”
We laugh as the barista prepares our drinks.
“I don’t have kids, but my sister is due any day with her first. A girl.
” Excitement bubbles up as I think of the sono images Mari’s been sending me—from the first one of a tiny, hard-to-make-out form to the latest, which was so distinct I could imagine reaching out to touch her and having her wrap a tiny fist around my finger.
“It’s hard because she’s in Colorado. I’m still hoping to be there for the birth, but things have been complicated here. ”
As in I have no idea where we’ll be living until Clay decides what his plan is.
“You had a lot of basketball in your feed. You must be a fan,” Annie says.
“My boyfriend plays.”
“Pickup?”
“For LA.”
Annie nods knowingly as she takes her drink and leads the way toward a corner table in the window, turning her back on the street. Maybe to get the sunlight or the privacy.
These two remind me of my friends in Denver. They’re not impressed by people who are “A Big Deal,” either because they are too or because they just don’t give a fuck about labels and follower counts. Which is a relief because I have a hard time guarding against people who are.
“It was so great when they won this year,” Annie says. “I follow a little, and we sit in one of the boxes from time to time. Which one is your boyfriend, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Clayton Wade.”
They exchange a look.
“It must have been hard to watch his team win from the sidelines. But he still gets a ring.”
“True. I just wish I knew where he was going to be next year,” I say.
“He doesn’t have a contract?”
I shake my head, feeling foolish.
“Negotiations are always hard,” Annie says kindly.
We moved here for basketball, but Clay hasn’t talked to me about his career since championships.
I sip my latte—it is good—and try to ignore the unease that’s been the dominant feeling in my stomach for weeks.
Annie picks up her phone, types away on it, then hits a button with a flourish.
“There. I’m one of your bazillion followers.
” She grins. “Tyler and I are having a party this weekend. You should come. It’s less exercise than barre class, but I can promise stellar beverages.
Some of them a little harder than what’s in here. ” She taps the wall of her mug.
My chest expands with hope. It feels like I haven’t found a rhythm since the championship. Since we moved here, really. The prospect of new friends is energizing.
“Thanks for the invitation. I’ll talk to Clay.”
“If he doesn’t want to come”—Annie flips her hair—“you should come anyway.”
CLAY
“I’m going to destroy you,” I inform the guy standing next to me.
“Impossible. You can’t beat that.”
I line up my shot, eyeing my target. Shift my weight. Pull back. And swing.
Crack.
The golf ball launches toward the horizon.
My three companions watch the arc of the ball. It lands in the center of the fairway.
“You need a backup job, this is it.” Tony, a software entrepreneur, claps a hand on my bicep.
We shift into our golf cart, me in the driver’s seat, the other two guys getting in theirs. Our caddies look after our bags as we take off toward the fairway.
We finish putting and talk about summer vacation. Everyone seems to have spent theirs in Greece or at their lake houses.
“What about you?” one of the others asks me.
“You kidding? He’s on every billboard in town,” Tony declares.
Since we won the championship, I’ve been booking more endorsement deals than ever.
Ironic seeing as how I didn’t contribute a single point in the postseason.
But people’s perception matters more than the truth.
“Can we get a pic?” Tony asks as we finish up our eighteen holes.
After I agree and get in the shot, he takes off his ball cap, turns the phone camera toward us, and clicks.
“I’ll text it to you,” he promises.
My phone buzzes for the tenth time.
“You need to get that?” Tony prompts.
“Nah.”
Except when I glance at the phone, it’s Nova.
Nova: Dee texted me about your contract.
Fuck. Dee’s persistent like that.
Clay: She shouldn’t be bothering you.
Nova: Seems like she’s doing her job. What time will you be home?
Clay: Not sure. There’s a dinner after.
I sit at a round table and make small talk I used to hate and drink until the buzz takes up residence in the back of my brain.
I’m on my third beer when a familiar face approaches.
“Hey, man. How’s it going?” He’s one of the young guys from the LA team. I clap him on the back, and he does the same to me. “It’s been a wild ride, right? Can’t wait to get my ring. Bet you’ve been dreaming of it for weeks. I know I have.”
When I sleep, I can’t seem to dream of anything.
That’s the problem.
I put on a good face, act like the guy who’s a champion.
None of it felt the way it was supposed to. There was no rush of satisfaction, no fulfillment that I’ve achieved my lifelong dream.
I got to the top of the mountain and found nothing there. Only the conviction deepening each day that I didn’t earn it.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
I head for the doors without saying goodbye to the organizers. My car stays in the parking lot as I get into a limo and it pulls away.
Tony sent me the picture. When I look at it for the first time, it takes me aback. He looks comfortable in his green polo. I’m wearing sunglasses and a black polo, my tattoos patterning my arms.
Is this who I am now?
There are options—teams that would sign me if I wanted to stay in the game even on the chance my knee doesn’t come back. But I hate the idea of being some kind of favor, a legacy whose only contribution is some kind of aura of championship, like stale cologne that aged badly.
I could announce my retirement, but that future is even more bleak.
The fence swings wide, and the limo pulls toward the house. It’s dark, the outside lights by the gate unlit.
“Let me drop you at the—” The limo pulls to an abrupt stop midway to the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wade. I think I drove into your garden.”
There’s no mistaking the squish of tires on the turf as he backs onto the asphalt once again and navigates around the plot of flowers Nova added in front of the house this spring.
I’m not ready to go in.
Alone, I don’t have to lie about the way I feel.
Doing it in public is one thing, but pretending to Nova is a different kind of hard.
“Wait here a second,” I tell the driver as the vehicle comes to a smooth stop.
“Everything okay, Mr. Wade?”
I don’t answer.
I love Nova and I used to anticipate seeing her at the end of the day. Now I’m not sure I remember how to look forward to anything.
It’s like I’m separated from the world by a glass wall.
There are little bottles of alcohol lining the shelves in the mini fridge, and I grab one.
“Mr. Wade, I hate to ask, but could I get an autograph? It’s for my son.”
The hope in his voice makes me pause. I set the bottle back on the shelf and take the hat and marker he passes through.
When I get out of the car, I drag my feet up the driveway and hit the entry code for the house.
Lights are on in the living room. I’m heading for the bathroom when I see the door to her studio is ajar.
Inside, Nova’s painting at her easel. Soft music streams from a Bluetooth speaker in one corner.
Her hair is blonde, streaked blonder from the sun, and twisted into a messy knot on her head. There’s none of the pink left, and I try to remember when that happened.
Her gray cotton dress reaches her knees. Bare legs and feet are tanned from a summer outside.
Nova’s focused on her easel, but she’s swaying too.
I imagine her eyes lifting to mine, grabbing me in that way she has.
Me crossing to her.
Turning her in my arms, carrying her to the wall, and pinning her there.
Her legs go around my waist. She reaches for my belt, unfastening it and my pants. We get them off, and I press between her legs, sliding in all the way. Her back arches as she moans softly.
Neither of us says a word.
For a moment, it’s everything.
For a moment, it’s enough.
As if feeling my attention, her eyes lift from the easel. “Hi.”
I blink from the doorway. “Surprised you’re up.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She stretches her arms overhead, revealing spots of paint on her arms and neck.
Around us are canvases everywhere, mostly images of dancers.
“You don’t do basketball anymore,” I notice.
“That makes two of us.” My body stiffens, and her eyes widen at the same time. “Sorry. I just mean that it’s September and we have no idea what you’re doing next year. Where you’re playing or—”
“I’ll figure it out.” My voice is rougher than I intend, but it feels as disconnected from me as every other part of my body.
“How was the tournament?”
“We raised a lot of money.” I feel empty. “How was barre class?” I ask, pushing to remember her schedule.
“Good. I made friends who invited us to a party this weekend. Want to go?” she asks.
A party.
I just spent all day acting around other people. But she wants to—I can tell.
“Yeah, sure.”
She looks as though she wants to say more but doesn’t.
“The limo drove through one of the gardens,” I go on finally.
Her face screws up. “The daisies?”
“Maybe.” I lift a shoulder. “Good night.”
“Night.”
Halfway out the door, I glance back…
But she’s already painting again.