Chapter 25
BYRON
It’sthe last home game before Christmas. I’m not looking forward to being on the road when Giana returns home.
In the VIP section, Penny’s father is on one side of Franklin and Penny is on the other. Her mother is home with Summer. Franklin meets my gaze and gives me the nod. I don’t miss the seriousness in his eyes on getting the win. One step closer to making finals. Yet my thoughts shift to his life and his happiness of being with Penny and part of her family. Mom and Dad sit in the row behind him, clapping and chanting with the fans. Charlotte sits beside Jobe. She isn’t looking at me. Her focus is on the guy who I haven’t spoken to in weeks except for what I need to say at training to keep Coach satisfied.
This season, Giana has been here for our winning home games. When she was away, we lost. I’m not predicting a loss tonight, as I have my eye on the prize of a championship ring, and I’m damn focused on making the top four. But before those winning games, I ran up to her in the stands and kissed her, and she whispered Good luck, and it was like she was my lucky charm. Giana is more than luck before a game. Her presence gives me confidence and more drive to win. I stare at the empty seat where she sits beside Charlotte.
Jye calls my name right before the ball hurls toward me. “C’mon, man. Do your thing.”
Spinning the ball on the floor until it bounces back into my hands, I drive toward the basket. It takes two bounces to get me into the paint, and I dunk. The fans cheer. It may be the warm-up, but they love to see our skills. And after the extra plyometric training, my leap has improved. They’ll see more of that in the game.
Coach calls us in. Brandon and I pull off our warm-up clothes.
I jump up and down. Side to side. High knees for five seconds.
I am ready.
“If Byron is smothered or they double-team him, then BJ, you take the point.”
The fuck?Brandon isn’t a point guard. He now plays a two or three position. What happened to Dwayne? He’s my backup guard. I catch the tic in Dwayne’s jaw. I flick my fingers in and out. Clench my fist, unclench. Flick, flick, flick. I roll my neck and stare at the scoreboard, visualizing the win.
“Let’s do this,” I yell.
“Hands in.” Coach is beside me.
“Give ’em hell, Byron.”
“Yeah!” I bounce up and down. “We got this. We got this.”
Jye wins the tap, and Brandon leaps and grabs it. Before his feet land, he tosses the ball my way as I have sprinted toward the ring. I jump, catch it, two fast bounces, and I slam the ball into the basket.
The crowd roars with excitement.
“Six seconds, baby,” I call out. Six seconds to get our first goal. I point to Jye, then to Brandon, and nod, clapping my hands. It’s their goal as much as mine.
After that, the game remains tight.
By the end of the quarter, we lead by three.
At halftime, we are up by four.
Coach roasts us in the locker room.
I wipe my face with a towel. Something is off. Fatigue is setting in far too quickly. I shift my mindset and listen to what Coach tells us.
I got this. This is a win.
“Byron, if Jye spins to the basket and takes Kirk out of the paint, then give him the fucking ball. With Kirk out of the picture, no defense will stop Jye.”
“Got it.”
We head out to the court, jog past the screaming fans, and prepare ourselves for the next half.
“I’ll give you a minute’s rest soon,” Coach tells me. Usually, I only need a minute, but today, I hope for extra time on the bench if we are winning.
Brandon makes the first two baskets in the third quarter, giving us a lead of eight points. If I can make a couple of three-pointers, it should mess with the Wolves’ thoughts.
I bring the ball down the court, dribbling past competitors as though it’s nothing more than a training drill. I yell out Brandon and Simpson. Instead, I pull up and take the three.
Swish.
I hold my hand in the air a little longer, eyeballing Stiner, my opponent. “Where were you, Stiner? Where were you?”
He ignores me, pushes off my shoulder, and leads for the ball. I stay with him, low in a defensive stance, placing extra pressure on him until he makes a crap pass. His teammate fumbles the ball, and it falls out of court.
I clap hard as I walk toward him, grinning and mocking.
Simpson scoops up the ball and stands off the sideline, ready to make the pass. Stiner gets up in my face, trying to deny me the ball. I get a break, and Simpson lands the ball a good distance in front to stop Stiner from intercepting the pass. I keep the momentum going and stride down the court, leaving Stiner in my wake.
Brandon claps his hands, demanding the ball.
I see him in my peripheral vision, although I’m focused on Jye, waiting for him to spin off Kirk and lead toward the key, all while I’m protecting the ball, dribbling and jab-stepping around my opponent, waiting for the ideal moment to pass. I’m not ignoring Brandon. It’s the play Coach wants. Yet Brandon is yelling at me for the ball.
Simpson jogs past me and yells, “To BJ.”
Realizing Jye can’t shake Kirk off, I switch the ball to the other hand to pass to Brandon, but in a split second, Jye breaks free and rolls toward the paint. Caught in the momentum, I twist to give the ball to Jye. My opponent runs at me, leaping into the air to block my pass. I push off my left leg to leap higher?—
Pop.
My knees buckle as my leg gives way. He lands on me with a heavy thud before I have aligned my body. I fall awkwardly, but his foot lands on mine, his knee jabbing into the side of my leg, and my ankle inverts.
Snap.
I fall to the hardwood.
“Fuuucckk.”
Agonizing pain shoots up my leg. I roll onto my side. No, no, no. I grab my shoe. My hands clamp around my ankle and heel, where it burns. No, fucking no. I slam my hand onto the hardwood.
“Jesus.”
The umpire blows his whistle to stop the game. I look up at the scoreboard.
Thank fuck Jye made the shot.
Holding my leg out straight, I scramble backward to get off the court. The doctor runs around the court and drops to his knees.
“Where is your pain, Byron?”
“My heel and ankle. I heard a pop, then a snap.”
He meets my gaze, his face showing no emotion, and I can’t gauge what he is thinking.
“I think it’s just a sprain,” I gamble. “Strap me up, and I’ll be right for the last quarter.”
“We’ll get you to my room, and I’ll assess you there.”
The medical staff has gathered around me. They heave me upright, and four of them carry me around the court. Cameras flash in my face. The applause is deafening. Pushing through the pain, I clench my jaw to wave and smile, projecting determination to return to the court.
Charlotte appears, walking briskly alongside the doctor. I bite my tongue before I say something sarcastic. She speaks quietly to the doc, flicks me a look, and drops back behind me. Inside the doctor’s room, I’m transferred onto a table, and the courtside staff leaves so it’s only Doc, Charlotte, and me.
“We’ll win.” The positivity inside me is cracking. I glance at Charlotte. She nods and stands against the wall, giving the doctor room to examine me. He tilts my foot a little each way, and I cringe. “Fuuuck.” The pain is intense.
“We’ll get you an ice bucket and arrange a transfer for imaging.”
“An x-ray?” Charlotte asks.
He glances over the rim of his glasses at Charlotte. “And an MRI. We need answers ASAP. Excuse me while I make some calls.”
Doc leaves me in the room with Charlotte.
“I didn’t see this coming.” I shrug. Yet, in hindsight, I was warned. I close my eyes and shake my head. I did everything expected of me. Months ago, at the performance center, Nate highlighted the potential risk of an ankle injury. I have visited the center an extra four times a month to ensure I am on track to strengthening and stabilizing my ankle. How? How did this happen?
“Lottie, I have done fucking everything to prevent this from happening.”
Charlotte pushes off the wall. “BJ was open. Why didn’t you make the pass?”
The fuck?
“You think this is my fault because I didn’t make the pass?” I say between clenched teeth.
“I’m saying if you weren’t so stubborn, you would have passed it to him and not let our relationship impact your game and decision-making. For years, you two have combined well. This…” she circles her hand between us, “… needs to stop. We all need to move on.”
I can’t breathe with the anger ripping through my body. Every inch of me wants to scream at her.
“First, thanks for your support. I thought you fucking cared.”
“Byron, I do,” she says in a softer voice.
“Second…” I say louder, “… Coach instructed me to pass to Jye. He said to wait for him to get open, and I’d better deliver him the fucking ball.” Charlotte closes her mouth, her wide eyes fixed on me. “So your boyfriend deliberately distracted me from the play. He heard Coach’s instructions. Maybe if he hadn’t made it look like I wouldn’t give him the ball and made a fucking screen or something to help me get it to Jye, then I mightn’t be here.” I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire arena heard me.
Charlotte is beside me, her hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, Byron.”
I cover my eyes with a bent arm. “You don’t know that.”
“Are you in pain?” Charlotte’s voice is calming. It’s the old Charlotte I used to know.
“Yeah,” I mutter without lifting my arms from my eyes. My throat tightens with a mixture of anger, frustration, and fear of the unknown. The way my foot throbs, I’d say it’s more than a sprain. “Go back out there and catch the final minutes of the game. We need this win, and you should be there to see it.”
She rubs my shoulder. “It’s okay. I can stay here with you.”
I lift my arm and stare at my sister.
“Thanks for the offer, but you represent the team. You need to be out there.” While I love that my sister wants to comfort me, I know what is expected of her, and she has a role to play, just as I do on the court. I know there is a bigger picture where we are both involved, and my family will be waiting for answers. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m fine. Make sure BJ doesn’t mess things up.”
She offers a half smile. “I’ll check back after the game, okay?” I signal with a thumbs-up. “I do love BJ. I always have.”
Always?I don’t say anything because she has just confirmed they have kept this from me longer than I thought.
While I should be happy she has found a decent guy—I don’t know anyone more genuine than Brandon—it’s going to take a while for me to accept that my two favorite people lied to me.
I need time.
My cell dingsevery few minutes with a text message. I missed the last quarter and the win.
I’m in a waiting room, waiting on MRI results. While awaiting the doctor, I watched the highlights of the last quarter on my cell—Brandon playing in my position and scoring ten points for the game.
I am pumped we won. One step closer, baby.
While my gut twists with anger at my friend, I can’t help the joy of him getting the win for us, but not in my fucking position. Not with the hurt from his lies still stuck in my chest. Not when the doctor tells me it’s more than a sprain, and I’m sitting here alone waiting for the results.
Hey, I wish you were here right now. I miss you x
It’s the middle of the night in Italy, but Giana will see the message when she wakes. I need to hear her voice. It’s the one thing that will soothe me right now. I swipe on the social media apps, hoping to see her face. The rock-hard lump in my chest slowly melts away. Her smile is all I need. I find an image of her with Isabella, smiling on a stage, and more images of her surrounded by people. I read the caption.
Cibo Creativo has announced a collaboration with artist, Giana Monroe. Their new designer kitchen range is coming soon! Be ready to transform your kitchens.
The collaboration is not news to me, yet seeing her happy and it all coming to life, I’m so freaking proud of her. I flick through more images, and my thumb freezes. What the actual fuck?
In a recent photo with Clarissa Carrington, the film star, and Austin Cisterna, the Italian filmmaker, Dante Leto has his arm around Giana. I check the date. Last fucking night. I toss my phone onto the table beside me.
“We have the results,” the doctor says as he enters the room.
Perfect fucking timing.
He stands beside my bed and waits for my focus. His expression is serious. Jesus, just say it.
“The results confirmed my thoughts. I’m sorry, Byron, but this is the end of the season for you.” He’s got to be joking. He knows I’ll never roll over and die. “You have a ruptured Achilles, along with an inversion ankle sprain. It’s a good thing you didn’t try to hobble off the court.”
A few seconds pass in silence. “But you can fix it, right?”
“You’ll need surgery and extensive rehabilitation to prepare you for next season.”
“Next season? There has to be a chance I can still play the finals. It’s four months away.”
He pauses before answering. “While I would like to offer you hope and say yes, I’m afraid if you return prematurely, you could injure it again and worse. If we were dealing with only the ankle sprain, then yes, but a ruptured Achilles is six months. This is not news to you. Your focus should be on rehab and strength training to cope with the workload of an elite athlete and be ready to go next season.”
“So there is a chance?”
Doc crosses his arms. “One percent, but?—”
“I’ll take it. It beats zero chance, and besides, doctors tend to exaggerate.”
“Byron, as a professional, I factor in your longevity in the game. If you rush back, it’s possible to develop other injuries or rupture it again. Of course, I’ll provide what you need to get you back on the court, but my advice is to be patient and do the hard yards so you can have a great season next year.”
I shake my head. While I appreciate the doctor’s professional advice, he doesn’t know my body like I do or how determined I am. An injury is just a hiccup in my grand scheme of winning a championship.
Doc’s brow pulls tight as though he knows what I’m thinking. “While I’m here to advise you, I can’t stop you from playing.”
“Then the next question is, when is the surgery? The sooner it’s done, the quicker I can get back on the court.”