Chapter Forty-Five
Todd
“Ten minutes,” an assistant with a clipboard announces, poking her head through the door before disappearing again.
“Ten minutes,” my dad echoes, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat and straightens his tie for the hundredth time. “Not long now.”
I nod, my left leg bouncing under the table like it’s got a mind of its own.
I’m trying to look calm in the crowded green room, but my body’s betraying me with every twitch.
My dad keeps patting my shoulder—a gesture meant to be reassuring but feels more like he’s checking if I’m still solid and not dissolving into a puddle of nerves.
My mom, seated on my other side, hasn’t stopped fiddling with her pearl necklace since we arrived.
My agent, Marcus, leans against the wall behind us, thumbing through his phone as if he’s not holding his breath like the rest of us.
And then there’s Taylor, sitting across from me in a dress I’ve never seen before, looking so unlike the baseball player I’ve known my whole life that I keep forgetting why we’re even here.
“You need anything—water? A snack?” Mom asks, already reaching for her purse as if she’s still packing lunches for my high school games.
“I’m good, Mom. Thanks.”
Marcus steps forward, sliding his phone into his pocket.
“Remember what we talked about. Smile for the cameras, firm handshake with the commissioner, and keep your answers brief but thoughtful during the interview. They’re going to ask about your journey, your influences, your thoughts on joining the team. ”
“Got it,” I say, though the words sound far away, like they’re coming from someone else.
Taylor shifts in her seat, and the movement draws my attention immediately.
She’s wearing a deep-blue dress that hugs her athletic frame in all the right places, her wild red curls tamed into loose waves that frame her face.
She’s always beautiful, but tonight she’s something else entirely—polished and elegant in a way that makes my chest tight.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing,” I say, too quickly. “Just . . . thanks for being here.”
“Of course, I couldn’t start my fancy new job without seeing you get yours.”
The reminder hits me like a sucker punch. Tomorrow. Arlington. Taylor and Emma moving hundreds of miles away to start their new lives. My stomach clenches, and suddenly the draft doesn’t seem like the most important thing happening tonight.
A camera crew approaches our table, and my agent straightens, stepping closer. “Todd, they want a quick pre-draft interview.”
I nod, standing on legs that feel strangely disconnected from my body. As the cameraman positions himself, I catch Taylor watching me, her expression unreadable. She gives me a quick thumbs up, and somehow that small gesture steadies me more than all of Marcus’s coaching.
The interview passes in a blur of standard questions.
How am I feeling? Nervous but excited.
What team am I hoping for? Any team that believes in me.
Who are my basketball heroes? Jordan, of course, but also the unsung high school coach who first taught me to love the game.
Through it all, I’m acutely aware of Taylor’s presence, her gaze a tangible weight on my skin.
When they finally move on to the next prospect, I sink back into my chair, exhaling slowly.
“You did great,” my mom whispers, squeezing my hand.
“Five minutes,” announces the same clipboard-wielding assistant, this time with more urgency.
Taylor leans forward, her elbows on the table. “You know what I keep thinking about? That time in eighth grade when you couldn’t make a free throw to save your life, and we spent that entire Saturday at the court until you hit fifty in a row.”
I laugh, grateful for the distraction. “My arms were so sore the next day I could barely lift my backpack.”
“But you never missed a free throw in a game after that.”
“Because I knew you’d never let me hear the end of it if I did.”
She grins, and for a moment, we’re just us again—Todd and Taylor, two kids from Cleveland who found themselves in each other. Not draft prospect and future Rangers’ player development coach. Not two people about to head in opposite directions.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the 2015 NBA Draft is about to begin,” a voice booms over the loudspeaker.
My mom gasps softly, reaching for my dad’s hand. Marcus steps forward, adjusting my tie and brushing invisible lint from my shoulders.
“This is it, Todd. Everything we’ve worked for.”
I nod, but my eyes are still on Taylor.
The green room transforms as staff usher people to their seats and position cameras for optimal angles. The energy shifts from nervous anticipation to electric excitement. On the screens mounted around the room, we can see the main stage where the commissioner stands ready to begin.
“The Minnesota Timberwolves are now on the clock.”
Taylor slides into the seat next to me, abandoned by my mom who’s now pacing behind us. Without a word, she takes my hand, her fingers cool against my sweaty palm. I look at her, eyes widening.
“Your hands were shaking,” she explains with a shrug.
I squeeze her fingers gently, grateful beyond words. “I can’t believe you leave tomorrow.”
“Me neither—it’s so surreal.”
“Arlington won’t know what hit it.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I still can’t believe I’m doing this—moving to Texas, taking Emma with me, starting this coaching job.”
“You’re going to be amazing,” I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. “Those players are lucky to have you.”
Our eyes meet and for a moment everything else fades away. It’s like it’s just the two of us on the basketball court or baseball diamond.
“Taylor, I have to tell you something—”
“Shh,” she cuts me off. “They’re about to announce the Timberwolves’ pick.”
And just like that, the moment slips away as the commissioner approaches the podium. The room falls silent. My parents freeze in place. Marcus straightens, his hand gripping my shoulder. Taylor’s fingers tighten around mine.
“With the first pick in the 2015 NBA Draft, the Minnesota Timberwolves select Todd Bergman, center, from Midwestern State University.”
The world explodes into sound and motion. My dad’s shout of triumph. My mom’s tearful Oh my God, Marcus clapping me on the back, saying something I can’t hear. And Taylor—Taylor letting go of my hand as I rise to my feet, dazed and elated.
“You did it,” she says, her smile genuine now. “You really did it.”
I’m engulfed in hugs—my parents, Marcus, other prospects offering congratulations. Someone hands me a Timberwolves hat, and someone else guides me toward the exit. But before I go, I turn back to Taylor, suddenly desperate to say something, anything, that might keep her from slipping away.
“Taylor, I—”
“Go,” she says, giving me a gentle push. “This is your moment.”
And then I’m walking through the crowd, shaking hands, accepting congratulations. The lights on the main stage are blinding as I climb the steps, but I find my way to the commissioner and shake his hand firmly just as Marcus instructed.
“Congratulations, Todd,” he says, his voice booming through the speakers.
I place the Timberwolves hat on my head, turn to face the cameras, and smile. This is it—the moment I’ve dreamed of since I first picked up a basketball. I should be floating on air, but there’s a weight in my chest, a sense of something left undone.
The photo op ends, and I’m ushered to the side for my first interview as an NBA player. The ESPN reporter, a woman with a sharp bob and sharper eyes, positions herself beside me.
“Todd Bergman, congratulations on being selected first overall by the Minnesota Timberwolves. How are you feeling right now?”
I take a deep breath, searching for the right words. “Grateful. Excited. A little overwhelmed, honestly. It’s been a long journey to get here.”
“Talk to us about that journey. What’s been your driving force?”
The camera’s red light blinks steadily, but all I can think about is Taylor—Taylor passing me the ball in our first pickup game, Taylor cheering from the bleachers at my high school championships, Taylor studying with me late into the night, Taylor in my bed, Taylor walking away.
“My family, of course,” I begin, finding my footing. “They’ve sacrificed so much to support my dream. And my teammates at MSU, who pushed me to be better every day.”
The reporter nods encouragingly. “Anyone else special in your corner?”
I don’t hesitate. “My best friend, Taylor Coleman. She’s been with me since we were kids, believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself.
She just led her baseball team to a championship and tomorrow she’s moving to Arlington to start her own coaching career.
” I pause, suddenly aware that I’m saying too much, revealing things meant to be private, but I can’t stop.
“She’s the most driven, talented person I know, and I wouldn’t be standing here without her. ”
The reporter’s expression softens slightly. “Sounds like a special friendship.”
“It is.” My throat tightens. “More than special.”
As the interview continues, I answer questions about my playing style, my thoughts on joining the Timberwolves, my goals for my rookie season. But my mind is elsewhere—with Taylor and all the words I should have said.
I have everything I’ve ever wanted—an NBA contract, a future filled with possibility, the validation of years of hard work. And yet, as I step outside the Barclays Center at the end of the night, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m losing something irreplaceable.
“Did you really mean what you said?” Taylor asks, stopping beside me on the sidewalk.
“Every word.”
She nods slowly, taking it in. “Do we—do you—have plans with your parents?”
“No, I told them we can celebrate tomorrow.” I close the distance between us. “I want to spend tonight with you.”
She opens her mouth as if to say something more, but then my limo pulls up and I drag her into the back seat behind me.
Her dress glimmers under the passing streetlights, every flicker reminding me that she’s still here, at least for one more night.
I will the traffic to disappear and for the driver to go faster, but the twenty-minute drive to the hotel feels inexplicably longer.
Once we arrive at The Westin, I lead her through the strobing lobby, past the other prospects and their entourages.
I watch the numbers climb as we ride the elevator to my floor, then fumble with the key card at my door.
She enters the room first, passing the fruit basket on the coffee table, and heads straight for the window.
I pull off my Timberwolves hat and run my fingers through my hair before popping a bottle of champagne. I pour two flutes, then walk over to Taylor, who still has her forehead pressed against the glass.
“New rules,” she says, turning to me. “We keep in touch.”
I hand her the champagne. “I thought that was always a given.”
“Yeah, but you know how busy you’re about to get.” She takes a long sip. “If nothing else, we call each other once a week—Sundays, seven p.m.—that’s our time.”
“What if I have a game?”
“Then we can rearrange it, but that’ll be our standing date at least.”
“All right.” I swallow my lips. “Sundays at seven.”
Drink forgotten, she gathers her hair over her shoulder, offering me her back, and I unzip her dress, kissing her neck as it slides to the floor.
She gasps when I press her bare back to the window, the lights of Times Square glistening all around us. Wrapping her legs around my waist, we kiss, drinking from each other like we need it for survival. I pull her lace panties aside and find her clit already hard and aching for me.
I press my forehead against hers as I fuck her with my fingers, then when she falls over the edge, I carry her to the bed.
Unlike every other night, where everything is hard and fast, this is soft and slow—every touch is like a whisper, or a hologram of what can actually be between us. We don’t talk through it like we usually do; it’s just lips and hands everywhere while my cock slowly pumps into her.
And when we come, gazing into each other’s eyes, I convince myself she loves me like I love her.