Chapter Thirty-Two
Todd
“You need to talk some sense into your sister,” I say as soon as Chase answers my call, my voice tight.
It’s been a whirlwind since Taylor came back home, but beneath the relief of seeing her again is the weight of knowing she’s passing up the chance to join the Rangers—an opportunity she’s worked so hard for.
I can’t shake the feeling that if anyone can reach her, it’s Chase.
He’s always been the one to ground her, so I need his help persuading Taylor before it’s too late.
“What? Did she tell you to fuck off when you told her how you felt?”
I put my car in drive and pull out of the parking lot. “No, she’s telling the Rangers to fuck off so she can take care of Emma and her unborn child.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” His typical humorous tone disappears. “You need to rewind because I think I missed a few episodes.”
So I fill him in on what’s been going on as I drive to class—Emma’s pregnancy and Taylor’s plan to put her own life on hold to mop up the fallout.
By the time I kill the engine, he’s gone from stunned to angry to something worse—the slow burn of responsibility that eats away at the best of the Colemans.
The line is quiet as I imagine him pacing and internally mapping out the next eighteen years of damage control.
“Well,” he finally says, his voice crisp and businesslike. “That escalated.”
“I know.” I fiddle with my car keys. “But Taylor’s serious. She’s talking about giving up everything.”
“She won’t do it. She’s too stubborn to quit.”
“I hope so,” I say, but I’m not convinced. If the choice is between her career and her family, Taylor would choose the latter every time—consequences be damned.
Chase obviously doesn’t truly believe it either because the next thing he says is, “Spring break starts next week—I’m booking the next flight to come knock some sense into her—and Emma—in person.”
“I’ll do my best to prepare her for that,” I say, and we end the call.
Classes, which had felt like a slow-motion hostage crisis for the last forty-eight hours, now seem to pass at some weird, hyper-compressed speed—probably because Taylor spent the night in my bed and my brain is already jump-cutting ahead to tonight.
I barely absorb a word in my eleven a.m. lecture, just nod along as the professor drones on while my phone buzzes with new messages.
Adam wants to know if I’ve heard from Taylor and if she’s going to be at baseball practice, while Jacob wants to know if Taylor’s said anything else to me about Emma.
Mostly, though, I spend the day in a daze, counting down the hours, then the minutes, then the seconds until the clock on my phone screen flips to game time.
I change in the locker room with the rest of the team, surrounded by the familiar ritual—the pop and hiss of tape rolls, the sharp scent of muscle rub, and the clatter of lockers as guys pretend not to be nervous.
Coach gives his usual pregame speech, a mix of dry sarcasm and veiled threats, but I doubt anyone is listening.
We’re 23–10 on the season, and after this there are only two more games before March Madness begins.
Time only stops when the referee tosses the basketball into the air.
I easily win the tip-off and pass it to Jacob, moving on to set up the pick for his defender.
Jacob takes the screen and rolls toward the rim.
Around the foul line, he bounce passes me the ball, which I catch and go in for the layup, scoring the first points of the game.
I breathe, taking in the atmosphere of the arena, our fans screaming and shouting as the announcer calls my name.
Jacob slaps me on the back. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”
The game continues much like that for the first half, and we’re neck and neck, only up by two points at halftime. We pile into the locker room, feeling really good about our chances of bringing home a win.
“I’ll keep this brief,” Coach McBrady says, silencing the team. “Keep playing the way you did in that first half, and we’ll be celebrating the next time we enter this locker room. But give anything less than what you just gave, and we’ll have nothing to show for all our hard work.”
We take the court again, ready to start the second half.
The Pirates, having to fight for their lives, play harder.
I’m defending their star point guard, a guy named Campos, according to the back of his jersey.
He’s significantly shorter than me, but he’s quick with impeccable footwork.
He tries to set the pick to get me off him, but I refuse to budge, not allowing him access to the paint.
He passes it off as his team runs their play, getting the ball back near the end.
I stand my ground as he charges for the shot; his elbow nicks my jaw, and pain courses through my face as I lose my balance.
I land on the floor, only able to watch as he makes the basket.
The ref blows his whistle. “Foul!”
Campos sneers as Jacob and Matt help me to my feet.
“You okay?” Coach McBrady calls to me.
It shouldn’t matter, but I can’t help but notice Taylor’s worried expression from her spot behind the bench.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I reply, ready to retaliate—and get my chance on their next possession.
Campos tries to shoot a three-pointer but comes up short, allowing me to get the rebound.
My long legs carry me across the court, leaving all the defenders in my dust. I dunk the ball, adrenaline pulsing through my veins.
That’s the beginning of the end for the Pirates. They aren’t able to keep up after that, and as the clock runs down to under a minute, we lead them by two possessions. They try to play the foul game, but our defense isn’t budging, and they lose with a final score of 76–70.
I’ve barely processed it, my eyes glued to the scoreboard, when I feel a hand on my back.
“Is your jaw okay?” Taylor asks when I turn to face her.
I don’t know what comes over me—maybe it’s the rush of winning or the need to claim her—but I kiss her in front of everyone: teammates and fans alike. “It won’t stop me from eating your pussy tonight.”
When I finally realize what I’ve said and done, I think she might clock me. Her cheeks heat up as she looks around at the gathered spectators, but then she smiles, her eyes lighting up.
“You’re not even going to buy me dinner first?” she asks.
“I just scored thirty-two points. That’s like, three dinners’ worth of effort.”
She flicks me in the chest. “And only two minutes of stamina.”
I take her hand, leading her away from the milling crowd. “I’m still ready for my dessert.”