Chapter 2
AVERY
THREE WEEKS AGO
Oh, I needed that,” I moan into Jack’s neck, my body giving a final few shivers.
His hand is making lazy circles on my hip, and our frames are melted into the plush mattress of his bed, situated in his somewhat extravagant off-campus apartment.
The scene is familiar. Also a senior at UConn, Jack and I have enjoyed your standard college three-year situationship. Sex, friendship—and no commitment.
The friendship is legit. We have few people we can trust with our genuine thoughts, so it’s been nice to stumble into that kind of companionship.
He’s also been a plus-one at many of my family events over the last couple years. Given me cover for not finding a real date.
I’ve returned the favor a few times. His grandfather owns the New Jersey NFL team, so he has regular family social obligations.
The sex is solid too. Jack knows what he’s doing and is turned on by my athletic success, not intimidated. That’s unusual, sadly for me.
“Same. It’s been a long week.” He’s headed to Harvard Law after we graduate, and this semester he’s commuted into New York City for an internship with one of his family’s lawyers.
“Better get used to it, being the heir to your family kingdom and all that,” I tease him.
“God, I wish I was good at sports instead, like you.” He laughs.
“It’s not easier, but I’m pretty sure I would die working in an office.”
“You wouldn’t, but you’d miss basketball. You love it too much.”
I do.
After running a hand through his mussed brown hair, Jack flips to face me and kisses my shoulder. “What’s your schedule again?”
“Once the draft is over this week—”
“When you’re picked first by Orlando,” he interjects. The Surge traded up to get the first selection in the draft, for the stated reason to choose me.
I hit him gently. “We’re not jinxing that. Anyway, I’ll be headed to whatever team picks me. I just finalized the plans so that after the draft I can finish everything for my classes remotely.”
“It all happens that fast?”
“Yeah, one day I’m a normal college senior, and the next I’ll be a WNBA player facing training camp.”
He shakes his head. “You won’t be here for graduation? Definitely?”
“It sucks, but yeah, the season will already have started by then.”
He sighs. “Okay, crap, my family is planning a huge dinner in the city that weekend, and I was hoping you could be my date.”
“Not this time, sorry.”
He gives a half smile. “No worries.”
He’s quiet for a moment before continuing. Processing something.
“So this is it, I guess? I mean, you leave in two days, and we aren’t going to see each other anytime soon.”
I blow out a breath. Even if we were never committed, we’ve been intimate with each other for years. Our college experiences weaved together.
This is a moment.
“Yes, I think so. I—” I’m not great about expressing my feelings, but I try. “I’m always here as a friend.”
“I know. Same, Aves.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll come to games when you’re up here.”
I wait until we’re fully dressed and I’m about to leave before I give him a real goodbye.
Stepping toward his frame, our arms open to each other. One last hug.
As I take stock, I find I’m not sad exactly. It’s been a convenient situation—a woman has needs, and finding a real boyfriend, someone I truly connect with, has proven impossible.
But it is a goodbye.
And after we break up the embrace and I step out of Jack’s apartment, it feels symbolic in more ways than one.
I’m leaving college Avery behind.
SURGE PRESEASON
Early May, Present Day (One Week Since the Hawkins Gym game)
“Avery, can we grab a quick interview?” I track the source of the question to a sports reporter from a local Orlando station.
I’m walking off the court, drenched in sweat. WNBA games are made up of ten-minute quarters, and I was in for around fourteen minutes total in the second half.
I’m still in awe of how much more physical the WNBA players are on the floor than my college opponents. My body’s feeling bruised on top of my bone-deep exhaustion.
However, the local station has invested in covering our preseason, and I know the right thing to do is field the questions.
“Sure.” Her camera guy gets set quickly, and the reporter jumps in.
“Avery, we’re so excited to have you here in Orlando, and it was a nice win for the Surge as you get ready for the new season. What made the difference tonight?”
I bring the towel across my face as the sweat threatens to drip in my eyes again. “We played our game, and my teammates really brought it. It was almost like a regular season battle.”
With the media training my parents have arranged for me over the years, I know I’ve given a safe, boring answer. I don’t have the energy for anything else though.
The reporter waits, as if she’s expecting me to elaborate. When I don’t, she tries again.
“You’re now only a week into your pro career and already getting serious time out there. I know the WNBA preseason schedule is short with just three days of training camp and then a week of preseason games. How are you feeling about it all?”
“Ball is ball, you know? I’ve been playing my whole life, and this is exactly where I’m meant to be.” That might have been too blunt, ugh. I throw in a little grin. “I’m grateful to be here.”
“Well, thank you so much,” she responds before nodding at her cameraman to end the interview.
Freed from that obligation, I head back into the locker room and take a quick shower, and then put on my clothes. The faster I get ready, the sooner I can eat. I’m so hungry.
“Nice game, Parker.” Our head coach, Mary Anker, has been chatting with different teammates over the last fifteen minutes, and I guess it’s my turn. “I know it’s an adjustment to come off the bench.”
My bag is all packed, but I can’t skip out now that she’s talking to me.
“It’s all right, Coach. It’s the preseason of my rookie year. I get it.”
“Okay, I just wanted to make sure. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re hard to read?”
Only everyone, my entire life.
I have one of those faces. When I’m lost in my thoughts, my expression settles into a variation of RBF, making me look disinterested, unemotional, grumpy, bitchy. The interpretation varies based on the biases of the person looking.
I don’t care too much what people I don’t know think of me. But with my new coach, I want to make a good impression. If for no other reason than to foster confidence that I can represent the team well as a starter.
“I’ve heard that before. I’m okay though. I want to earn my spot.” I push a smile on my face to reinforce my words.
“Great, love to hear it. See you tomorrow, bright and early.”
And with that dismissal, I head out the door, taking care to say my goodbyes to teammates as our eyes meet.
Once I’m in my car, I see that my mom asked me to call her.
Sylvia Parker. Former Olympic volleyball player, now Momager-extraordinaire.
She’s been all over my sponsorships and appearances since high school. Since I have zero interest in dealing with that side of being an athlete, it’s not been terrible.
My college NIL (Name, Image, and Likeness) income became a high six figures during my final two years, and I was thankful she could take care of all the opportunities.
She’s picked up the same role for my younger sister Remy, who’s finishing up her sophomore year at UConn and her first year as starting point guard. Remy has a happy-go-lucky personality, so Mom’s management style also works for the two of them, though for different reasons.
My older brother Dylan—now that’s a different story. He loves to be in control of everything off-court too. He’s long moved past Mom’s reach in his fourth year in the NBA and hired a rockstar agent, some guy named Aiden.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she says as she picks up the call. “How was the game? I caught the stats online.”
“Fine. Then you saw. I shot five for eight, and had three assists. We won.”
My mom will know that I expect more for my own numbers, but without starter minutes, that’s harder.
“Not bad, Aves,” she reassures me. “Is it a good time for me to go over some business stuff?”
“Sure.”
“The SkyHigh brand emailed me with interest in a shoe deal. Would you want me to pursue it?”
“Why not? I like their campaigns.” They’re creative, and they always have as many women athletes as men in their marketing.
“All right, let me follow up with them. And then Legend protein bars want to do something with you, Dylan, and Dad.”
Hmmm. “What does Dylan say to that?”
She sighs. “I haven’t talked to him or his agent yet. Thought I would start with you first.”
Dylan, like me, has a complicated relationship with my dad. Paul Parker the basketball player may have been an All-Star for a decade, but as a dad, he was absent a ton. And once we hit our preteen years, there wasn’t any hero worship at home.
When Dad finally retired and was around more, we were in high school and old enough to have strong, independent streaks. His attempts to be a tough coach, teach us how to “really play,” and overall control our lives only served to piss us off.
For Dylan, that meant fighting back, loudly. He was a national phenom by that point anyway. Me, I just shut it all out.
Dad’s not necessarily a bad guy, but he doesn’t really know us. Not like Mom does. He’s never quite adjusted to no longer being the star of the show either.
And Dad, Dylan, and I—we’re all stubborn as heck. So that doesn’t help.
“If everyone else is in, I’ll do it.” It’s easy to say because I doubt Dylan will agree.
“Media wise, we’re going to have a meeting with the Surge public relations lead, who mentioned a few interview requests. None of them sound too crazy to me. A local paper feature and a couple pre-recorded interviews for the first few televised game days.”
“Great. Thanks, Mom.”
“She seemed fine that we weren’t hiring anyone for your personal PR needs yet. So we’ll go with our plan, and she and I will coordinate all your media duties.”
“Perfect.” I like simple, and that approach sounds easier than adding a new person to the mix.
“Enough business,” she said, her voice relaxing. “Dad and I are excited to see you play in a couple of weeks. Got my Surge gear coming in the mail. Jamie may be able to come too.” My younger brother is still in high school.
She sounds excited, and it lifts me up a bit. Mom is adorably supportive when it comes to our on-court play.
“Hopefully I get decent minutes. Odds are I won’t start.”
“You never know. You’re the best shooting guard they have.” And there’s her competitive side again.
Not that I don’t agree with her.
I’m trying to stay casual about not starting on the Surge yet, but my goals are many orders of magnitude bigger than that.
I love basketball on a pure level, one hundred percent, but I also want to be the best at my position in the history of the women’s game. Period.
And if I can’t succeed, I’ll probably die trying.
I learned early on to keep this vision to close friends and family. My mom, my siblings, friends like Sarah who get it (and who, as a forward, is thankfully not offended).
Because the general population couldn’t hear this goal without projecting it through the lens of my dad’s career. My brother’s career, even. Just one more Parker in the game.
Instead, I want to be the Avery Parker. To be remembered for myself, my own achievements.
“Mom, I’m going to jump off. I need to drive home, and I’m starving.”
“Okay, sweetie. I’ll text you later if I have any new info.”
When I get home, I grab what’s left of a protein bowl from yesterday’s takeout order before flipping on a true crime show while I eat.
And I realize that I’m alone, without the crutch of my family, Jack, or any of my UConn friends, for the first time maybe ever.
I think I’m okay with that.
It feels liberating, to be honest.
Twenty-one, a pro player, with my own place in Orlando.
Fourteen-year-old me would be jealous.