Chapter 15
RAWLEY
STEFANI: Rawley Battle, did you lie to me?
Asinking feeling hits me. I was avoiding writing Stef about the Avery updates, but I probably should have done it at the same time as my siblings.
Too late now. Plus, tonight I make my first appearance at the Surge game.
You don’t owe Stef anything.
But I’m not going to ignore her message. That doesn’t feel right either.
RAWLEY: No, things just changed.
There’s no response for a minute, and a little twist in my stomach won’t come undone. I fill out my explanation.
RAWLEY: Avery and I just kind of happened. It doesn’t have to affect our friendship, right?
STEFANI: Everyone is talking about it. I can’t believe I had to find out from a social media post.
STEFANI: I just wish you had told me.
Twist, twist.
RAWLEY: I’m sorry.
There’s five minutes of radio silence. And I’m surprised to find I’m more impatient for her to respond than worried she’s still mad.
Finally, another message loads.
STEFANI: Apology accepted.
STEFANI: So I need to tell you about my audition…
“Looking sharp,” Connor says dryly as I walk into Landon’s living room later that afternoon.
He arrived from Princeton yesterday, all done with his freshman classes.
As planned, I’m wearing Avery’s number eight jersey over some joggers for her game.
“Just supporting ‘my girl.’” I use finger quotes since he knows the truth.
“All while making sure about a thousand cameras catch you. You couldn’t find a shirt to fit underneath?” His voice is laced with sarcasm as his eyes roam around my bare arms.
I flex my biceps. “And hide these babies?”
Connor scoffs. “Just keep them away from me.”
In reality, I’d gotten very specific instructions on what to wear from Taylor, and Avery’s jersey was delivered to our door overnight.
“Don’t be intimidated, baby bro.”
“Yeah, it’s not that.” He shakes his head, now chuckling. I love breaking down his snarky side, getting him to genuinely laugh. The kid is always spun so tight.
“Okay, we good to go?”
“Yeah.”
We get to the arena, and I follow the directions to a private parking lot, where the security guard waves us on. From there, the Surge staffer from our interview, Kayla, greets us. I introduce Connor, and she points toward a hallway.
“I’m going to walk you out and lead you to the courtside area.”
“All right, thanks.”
“Just to prepare you, the announcer in the arena will likely do something to acknowledge your presence.”
“That’s okay,” Connor says. “He knows all eyes will be on him.”
Kayla gives a small look of apology.
“It’ll be fine, no worries.”
“Okay, let’s get you to your seats.”
We head down the hallway, following Kayla, and after a few turns emerge onto the side of the court opposite the benches.
As she leads us to our spots, the buzz of the crowd elevates, and I can feel the number of eyes on me accumulate with each passing second. Among all the chatter, I can make out phrases like “he’s wearing her jersey.”
Once we’re at our seats, Connor settles in, but I stay standing as Kayla departs. Turning back to the row of people behind us, I give a wave and wear a large grin, trying to connect with as many sections as I can.
A burst of cheers comes as the crowd sees my gesture, and phones, as well as a couple of the large station cameras, are trained on me. Once the cheering wanes, I take my seat next to Connor.
“Mission accomplished?”
“The first one anyway.”
The Surge aren’t on the court yet, and so the thumping of club music is the main competition to the chatter of the crowd.
I’ve watched plenty of NCAA and pro level women’s games on TV during their respective playoffs. But I’ve never been to one, which is shitty, I realize now.
The size of the crowd isn’t much different than an NBA game, and the energy is lit up just the same. The stands are a sea of purple Surge T-shirts.
Within a minute, the opposing team runs out onto the floor and starts their warmups, giving me a chance to appreciate their skills.
“God, I love basketball, Con. Who knows what would have happened if I had the skills. Not that I don’t love football too.”
“Yeah, you had to settle for being a pro wide receiver making millions,” he jokes.
“Maybe if I had that extra inch you got instead.” He’s six feet six inches, the tallest of us Battles.
“Which inch are you talking about?”
I shoot him a look and ruffle his hair, which I know annoys him.
He ducks his head out of the way. “Sorry, that was in poor taste, but you left it open for me.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
An attendant in a Surge uniform comes up to us shortly afterward. “Hi, I’m Stewart. Do you gentlemen want something to drink? Beer? Water?”
Connor’s not twenty-one, and while he would probably get served without his ID being checked, the last thing either of us needs is for him to get caught drinking illegally with me.
“Just water for us both, thanks.”
Stewart brings us water bottles and then leaves us alone. Within a minute, I start fidgeting with the wrapper.
“You nervous?” Connor’s voice is softer than it’s been so far today. “You keeping those feelings in check?”
“Yeah, I mean, I haven’t seen Avery in a week. There’s no emotions involved, and I’m going to make sure it stays that way. I just wish the Surge would come out here so we could be distracted watching them.”
“Understandable.” He scans the crowd as he sips his water. “What’s your OTA schedule the rest of May? We can make plans for what to do while I’m here.”
I know exactly what Connor is doing. Giving me concrete questions to focus on, so I don’t totally squirrel. He’s been doing it for years.
Still, I’m more than happy to play along because it really does help.
“We have them over the next three-ish weeks, into mid-June.”
“Ah, so no hitting the club again anytime soon?” He nudges my shoulder with his.
“No, I will have to stick to wholesome activities only.”
“Got it,” Connor says. “Let me find the bowling alley and miniature golf place nearest Landon’s house.”
His tone is snarky, and I snort in amusement. But hey—those don’t actually sound so bad.
After a few minutes of back-and-forth on possible activities to do together, he gives me an update on Mom’s reaction to him coming to Orlando instead of Alabama this summer.
The upshot: If all my children are going to abandon me…blah blah. Emotional manipulation at its finest.
“I’m sorry, Con. I mean, the woman hasn’t even reached out to me since I signed my contract. And even then, all I got was a simple text.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry. You still talking to Dad at all?”
I feel bad because I know Dad doesn’t pay much mind to Connor, so I skirt over the truth. “We text on occasion.” In reality he sends me notes almost every day on whatever’s going on in the sports world.
I don’t have to massage us around that topic any more though, because the Surge start streaming out of one of the hallways, running to their half of the court for warmups.
And then out comes Avery, looking long, lean, and strong, her inky-black hair pulled up in its standard ponytail.
She glances my way almost immediately, and I shoot her a smile. Return it, I try to telegraph, remembering the point of today.
And then she does.
Shit, be careful what you wish for, because that smile—I react to it like it’s real.
A prickly heat rises in my chest while I also feel a deeper pull in my gut.
And fuck me if every vow I’ve made in the last ten days about this thing we’re doing gets chucked in the trash.
I like her.
And it’s not just that. I want her to like me back.
That compulsion, it’s stronger than I expect.
Maybe it’s being here at her court, getting the benefit of her attention when she’s in her full power?
Whatever’s going on, as she turns her head back to a teammate and grabs a ball, one thing is clear.
I’m in trouble here.
I can’t let myself get invested in this, in us. Fuck.
Connor and I watch them do their shoot-around largely in silence, and I take the time to reset.
You have a role to play, Battle. Stay on it.
And the next part of the act is coming up.
When the warmups end, the players start to head back to the bench. Only, as we’d intended, Avery strides over to where Connor and I sit, casually dribbling off and on.
Cameras go off in ever more frequent amounts as she gets close, and then we’re set up for the moment.
Knowing the next move is mine, I stand up, now only a foot away from her, and open up my arms.
She steps in them, a smile on her face, and I fold her into my body, kissing the side of her head, my lips brushing above her ear.
A greeting like countless players have done with their family and friends before a WNBA game.
But instead, it’s us. The press corps gives up playing it cool, and on top of all the cell phones in our direction, every available professional camera is focused on us too.
She leans into my body, her jersey matching my own.
God, I wish this were real.
Yeah, like I said, I’m in trouble.
It’s not like I’m in love with the woman, but clearly there’s something there.
I raise my right hand up so it cups the back of her head, and spread my fingers across the silky hair that’s being pulled up into her ponytail.
“Have a great game, Avery,” I whisper in her ear, tilting my head so no one can read my lips.
She laughs a little in my neck. “I’d better, after this show.”
She breaks away and with one more look over her shoulder, heads to her bench.
Everything went according to plan—except with how perfect she felt in my arms.
She’s never going to want you, Rawley, don’t get your hopes up.
You’ve been here before with Stef.
As I watch her take her seat, I try to repeat those two statements enough times that I actually believe them.