Chapter 6
Cal
I had been sitting at my kitchen island for the better part of an hour editing together next week’s headliner segment while ESPN clips and stat graphics played across my laptop screen.
Everybody wanted to know the same thing.
Was he really back?
Or was Houston putting too much pressure on a player still recovering from injury?
I adjusted my headset slightly while reviewing clips from around the league.
The Rockets were finally looking dangerous again.
The Falcons were getting preseason buzz after adding veteran defensive pieces.
Baseball season was heating up.
And somehow in the middle of all of it, J5’s comeback had become the story people cared about most.
Partly because of how bad the injury looked.
Partly because J5 was one of the league’s most explosive guards.
A lot of it had to do with Nia.
People inside the sports world had started quietly talking about her.
The beautiful physical therapist who somehow got Houston’s franchise player moving like himself again after a season-threatening injury.
I replayed a clip of her correcting J5’s stance during drills, her hands firmly guiding the athlete's hips into alignment, and paused it absentmindedly.
God, she looked good.
Focused.
Sharp.
Completely in control of her room.
My phone lighting up across the marble counter pulled me out of my thoughts.
Nia.
Just seeing her name hit my screen shifted my entire mood instantly, a sudden rush of adrenaline replacing the afternoon sluggishness.
I picked it up and answered quicker than I meant to.
“What’s up?”
“What’s up with the flowers?” her voice came through, laced with a familiar, playful skepticism.
My smile faded immediately.
“What flowers?”
There was a sudden, heavy pause on her end, the ambient sound of city traffic humming in her background.
"Nevermind," she said, her tone shifting, trying to backtrack.
Then something ugly twisted quietly in my stomach.
The warmth from a second ago completely evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard edge.
“Who sent you flowers?”
“Bye, Cal.”
The line disconnected before I could say anything else.
I stared at my phone for another second longer than necessary, the blank screen mocking me.
That bothered me way more than it should’ve.
I tried focusing back on work.
Really tried.
I opened up the franchise analytics report, staring at columns of numbers that suddenly meant absolutely nothing.
My mind kept drifting right back toward the call.
Who was he?
How serious was it?
Why did she sound amused instead of annoyed?
I rubbed my hand across my jaw, thoroughly annoyed with myself.
Because realistically… me and Nia had no claim over each other.
That was the entire point of how we operated.
No expectations.
No pressure.
No restrictive titles.
Just us doing whatever this fluid, magnetic thing between us had become over the years.
So why did the mere idea of another man pursuing her make my chest tighten until it ached?
I slammed the laptop shut finally, the sound echoing through my quiet apartment, and grabbed my phone again before dialing Jalen.
He answered halfway through the second ring.
“What’s good, brother?”
“What you doing?” I asked, skipping the pleasantries.
“Trying to convince your sister to cater Gutters at the wedding reception.”
I laughed despite myself, the image of my sister arguing over greasy sports-bar food at a high-end wedding breaking my tension for a fraction of a second.
“I mean, it's not a bad idea,” I said.
“You called me for a reason, though,” Jalen said, his tone shifting into something more perceptive.
He knew me too well.
I leaned back against my office chair quietly for a second, staring out the window at the sprawling Houston skyline.
“You know if Nia is dating anybody?”
There was dead silence on the line for a few seconds, then Jalen chuckled immediately, a rich, knowing sound.
“When you gonna stop torturing yourself and tell that girl how you really feel?”
I frowned instantly, my defensive walls snapping right back into place.
“I’m not torturing myself,” I snapped, the denial tasting sour in my mouth. “And there’s nothing to tell her. We have an understanding, Jalen. You know that.”
“Yeah, an understanding that lets both of you play chicken with your feelings while the rest of us have to watch,” Jalen said, his tone dry as dust. I could hear him shifting on his end, the distant murmur of a television fading as he focused entirely on me.
“Look, man, Nia doesn't broadcast her business. She’s private.
But if somebody is sending flowers to the facility, they aren't hiding.”
The word flowers sent another sharp jolt of irritation straight to my ribs.
“She called me thinking they were from me,” I muttered, hating how much that admission wounded my pride.
“And when you said they weren't?”
“She hung up.”
Jalen let out a low, sympathetic whistle that only served to make me angrier.
“Oof. Double tap to the ego. Look, Cal, I love you like a brother, but you can’t keep one foot in the door and then get mad when someone else tries to walk through it.
Nia is a beautiful, successful black woman in a city full of men who actually know how to close a deal.
If you aren't going to claim her, don't be mad when someone else treats her like a prize.”
I gripped the edge of my desk, my knuckles turning white against the dark wood.
Logically, he was completely right. We had intentionally built a wall around whatever this was specifically to prevent this kind of mess.
No messy breakups. No complicated expectations.
Just two people who found solace in each other whenever the pressures of our respective worlds got too heavy.
“I’m not mad,” I lied, my voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. “I’m just asking.”
“Right. And I’m trying to serve sliders at a black-tie gala,” Jalen shot back smoothly. “Just think about what you want, Cal. Before the choice isn't yours to make anymore.”
“You really think I should say something?” I asked before I could stop myself, the vulnerability slipping through my armor.
Jalen got quiet for a second, the playfulness completely evaporating from his voice.
“I think eventually another man will.”
That landed harder than I expected, a blunt strike straight to my gut.
We talked sports for a little while longer after that, both of us eager to retreat into safer territory.
Predictions for the upcoming season. J5’s minutes restriction coming off his knee injury.
The various trade rumors floating around the league.
Normal stuff. But even after we hung up and the line went dead, my mind still stayed entirely on Nia.
And those damn flowers.
About an hour later, the walls of my apartment felt like they were closing in. I found myself driving across town with no real destination in mind, the city lights blurring past my windows before pure instinct eventually took over the steering wheel.
Lincoln Park.
It was the old court that basically raised us.
Nia, Mars, and I had spent most of our youth there, sweating through summers and hanging out with half the other kids on the block.
The second I pulled into the asphalt parking lot, the headlights of my car cut across a familiar black truck parked underneath one of the flickering streetlights.
My chest tightened immediately.
Nia.
I killed the engine and stepped out slowly, the humid night air wrapping around me. I heard the rhythmic, hollow bounce of the basketball echoing off the chain-link fence before I even saw her clearly.
Then there she was.
Under the harsh, buzzing bright court lights, she was wearing fitted shorts and a loose tee that shifted with her movements.
I leaned against the hood of my truck, watching the sweat glistening across her dark legs while she moved through drills alone, as if muscle memory had taken over her body completely.
Cross. Step back. Pull-up jumper. Perfect release.
Swish.
She looked amazing. I stayed quiet for a second, just watching her shadow stretch across the concrete, because I hadn’t seen Nia really hoop in years. Not like this. Not freely, without an audience or a clipboard in her hand.
Basketball was still deeply emotional for her, whether she admitted it to the world or not.
I knew how hard losing the WNBA dream had hit her after the final injury.
I remembered the surgeries, the long hours in waiting rooms, the bitter frustration, and the agonizing silence that followed when the scouts stopped calling.
Nia acted tough about a lot of things, wearing her professionalism like iron.
But basketball? That loss cut deep into her soul.
She drove hard toward the rusted rim again, her shoes squeaking sharply against the pavement before finishing a clean layup and landing lightly.
She still looked incredibly graceful, athletic, and fine as hell.
With her every move—the curve of her waist, the determination in her eyes—she made my chest tighten in ways I didn’t fully understand anymore.
The dynamic between us was shifting, slipping out of my control, and the phantom scent of orchids seemed to hang in the night air.
"Okay, Shot!" I said, using her childhood nickname, the old familiarity rolling off my tongue like a shield. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” I finally called out, stepping out of the shadows.
She froze slightly, the basketball trapped between her hands against her hip, before turning her head toward me. And even sweaty, catching her breath under the unforgiving, harsh court lights… she was still the prettiest woman I’d ever seen.