Chapter 2
brANDON
Two months later…
I stare at the email, and for a brief moment, I consider deleting it.
She hates me.
That thought enters my head and resembles a mantra, sounding over and over.
Charlotte despises me and for good reason.
Fuck, I hate myself too.
I’m a coward, an idiot, and a huge disappointment.
I would call, but she’s bound to hang up because I should have been there when things worsened, and I was aware of the Chicago Stingers’ interest in me.
Not now, months later, when I’m a hopeless mess.
Valentine’s Day came and went. Her birthday the following week.
It’s why I have been thinking about her every minute for the past three days and the reason to reach out and pour my heart out in a letter, hoping she understands why I had to leave.
Pushing my chair away from the desk, I head to the window and look out over the city of Chicago. A blanket of snow covers the building tops and parked cars. While the team welcomed me for my first Christmas in Chicago, it was the loneliest I’d felt in my life.
In January, I survived my first blizzard. The heating in my apartment has been switched to high ever since I arrived as I have never experienced weather like this, especially not where I’m from in Australia.
I check the weather app on my cell because fuck, I need to head out soon for a late afternoon training session.
The app predicts it will dry out in a few hours, but more snow is forecasted to fall overnight.
Out of habit, I check Los Angeles—a mild sixty-five degrees.
I lived in California from the time I arrived in the US for a college basketball scholarship and remained in LA after being drafted by the LA Sharks.
Even though I had bundled up to go outdoors, I couldn’t feel my fingers and toes.
Here, it’s like ice smacking you in the face, and if you go out without a beanie, your ears would drop off.
But it’s no different to my frozen heart.
Frozen in time from the day I decided the best thing for Charlotte was to leave before she discovered I was nothing more than a disappointment.
Every day, I mull over my actions, wishing I didn’t run because if I stayed and faced the consequences, there was the slightest chance we might still be together.
I should have stayed by her side, made sure her brother—my best friend—knew we hadn’t betrayed him.
But his injury changed everything. He nearly lost his chance to play ball, and I couldn’t shake the blame.
His family—my American family—would never have forgiven me.
A notification buzzes on my phone—a reminder the LA Sharks are to play San Diego.
I switch on the television and remain standing while the announcers discuss both teams’ statistics.
Here in Chicago, my wings are spread, and I’m playing my own game, winning most games and being the highest scorer of the day.
In LA, Byron was the brightest light, and while we combined well on the court, my game was more about making him look good and, by doing that, getting the win.
“The LA Sharks don’t have what it takes to get the win tonight. Without their dynamic duo, their guards are not up to the pay grade.”
I moan at the announcers. “It’s because they don’t receive the pay grade, you dickhead.”
“Inside news tells us that Byron Hendricks won’t be back for the remainder of the season, and if he did return, it wouldn’t be enough to get this team to the playoffs.
Especially without Brandon Johns. While he averaged fifteen points a game, his assists to Byron could have doubled his points. BJ was the rainmaker for the team.”
I no longer play for the LA Sharks, but they were like family, and I’m not a robot able to shut off the loyalty I still feel when anyone trolls them.
But it’s not why I’m watching the pregame show.
There is a moment when the camera flashes onto the governor of the team, Charlotte’s father and brother, Franklin, and I know she’ll be sitting beside them, invested in the players and the game.
I wait.
I hold my breath when the camera flashes to the tunnel, and Byron enters the arena on crutches.
Every moment that led me here flashes before me.
I’m pulled out of the dark thoughts when the camera narrows in on the Hendricks family in the VIP seats.
Charlotte, in particular. She is clapping in time to the music in the arena.
I stare at her beautiful face with blue eyes that remind me of summer skies.
The corners of her lips quirk into a light smile, not the radiant one that lit up a room.
While she lives and breathes basketball as though it’s a constant source of happiness, her face tells me she is anything but.
She is physically present, and I know I’m to blame for stealing her passion.
I know because the day I left, a piece of me died, and I guess she felt it too.
I’m still kicking myself for not talking to her when the opportunity arose a few weeks after leaving when the Stingers played the LA Sharks. I was a fool for believing she was better off without me. So I cut ties completely so she couldn’t contact me. I thought it was for the best.
Only now, the sleepless nights and the constant nausea were a cruel reminder of how I fucked up. Now I’m putting my trust in the universe, hoping she’ll read my letter with a thousand apologies.
What’s the worst outcome that can happen? She’ll delete the email, or she’ll read it. If she does, then what? I can’t leave and rush back to LA to be with her. The trade is done, and I need to see out my contract in Chicago.
The letter is a small step in the hope of us becoming friends again. While I don’t expect her to forgive me, it might open the door my actions slammed close.
I return to my desk, read over the letter, and click send.
Fuck, she’ll see my name and delete it for sure.
Pushing my chair away from the desk, I search for paper and a pen. A handwritten letter is more of a meaningful gesture.
I glance back to the screen to view the email I just sent and begin writing.
Lottie,
I need to begin this letter with an incredibly heartfelt apology.
A wise lady once told me the heart is fated to break, but the broken live on.
I’m waiting because the agony that constricts me is making it impossible to breathe.
Two long months have passed since my flight arrived in Chicago. The snow, while it looked pretty, felt equally as cold as my core. Dread filled me during my final days in LA. I was empty and at a loss for what to do.
How do I make our world right?
I can only hope one day you will understand why.
The last thing I wanted was for you to see a grown man cry.
When I saw you merely weeks after I was traded, I lied when I told you I had thrown my phone in the lake. I would never destroy our memories, our photos, or our chats. Instead, I changed my number.
Why?
You deserved a fresh start.
To be with someone you wouldn’t have to look at with disappointment. Someone your family would be proud of for you to share a life alongside.
I’d always hoped that person would be me.
And then I fucked up. I hurt you, Byron, and your family, who took me in and treated me as one of their own. For those reasons, I needed to cut all ties and remove myself from your lives.
How could I stay when I caused so much pain?
Byron hated me. Blamed me. Shit, I blamed myself. He almost didn’t play ball again, and it would have crushed him, as I know it would me…
Hindsight is a marvelous thing because if I had the chance, I would exchange playing for the possibility of being with you again. I have asked myself over and over again… would you give me another chance? Would you even want to see me after I left without a goodbye?
You deserve better.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from wanting you. I want that more than anything.
But we wouldn’t stand a chance if I didn’t take the time to work on myself. My worth. To learn how to value myself enough so I can love you the way you truly deserve. If we want an honest, healthy relationship, then that needs to start with me.
It will take time, but I guess time is what we have.
I mourn for you. When I’m not training, I lock myself in my apartment and ignore texts from my teammates to hang out.
At training, I curse when I mess up, using every profanity I can.
I scream at the players because they don’t understand how I play.
They are unable to grasp it. Any of it. Their ignorance fuels my frustration. It’s not their fault I’m an asshole.
This move, and losing you, have changed me. I was never like this before…
Why did I even bother coming here?
Then I think about you. It kills me to think you are hurting as much as me.
If I had the ability to make everything right, then I would do it in an instant. But the only option that seemed feasible to me on that day was to be far away and out of your lives.
I regret not trying harder to make amends and stay.
If only…
If only…
My thoughts are my nemesis.
The nightmares.
The heartbreak.
I miss your heartwarming smile and the way your eyes light up. I miss your touch, the sound of your voice, and even your lame jokes.
I miss you, Lottie.
Is there a possibility that we might meet? Have a coffee, and chat about basketball. Return to our roots when we first met. We were friends first.
What I’m trying to express is I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.
I hope one day you can forgive me.
Forever yours,
BJ
I seal the letter and address it to Charlotte Hendricks.
Should I include my name on the back of the envelope? It will give her a chance to return it without opening it like she’ll more than likely delete the email as soon as she reads my name.
Charlotte knows my handwriting. It’s important that she maintains control and doesn’t get blindsided. I decide to include my address on the back. This way, she can choose to read my words instead of being surprised when she opens it.
A bonus to doing that means if she’s ever in Chicago, then she knows where I live.
I thump the desk. Again, I’m leaving the hard work for her. I should directly address the situation since I know where she lives.
Maybe we can write to each other.
Slowly make our way back to each other through letters, perhaps.
Three weeks later…
Slowly, I veer into the porte-cochere. Then, giving the keys to my new McLaren 750S to the valet, I proceed past security into the welcoming, warm luxury apartment foyer.
Thanks to the big dollars the Chicago Stingers willingly paid, my new life is a step up from my time in LA.
Three luxury cars, a fancy apartment in the city’s heart, a holiday house on the East Coast, and security everywhere I turn—it’s a sample of the life Charlotte lives.
The opulence reminds me of her. And I die a little more every day knowing I was never good enough even though I have made a name for myself here.
“Mr. Johns,” the tuxedoed concierge greets me. “You have a package, sir.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, Bert.” I shake his gloved hand. “How’s the family?”
“Wonderful. Thank you for asking. My wife is planning a summer vacation, and it’s created some excitement. We are ready for some sunshine.”
“Aren’t we all?” I smile at him. “Have a good night.”
“Same to you, Mr. Johns.”
Quickly, I head toward the mail room to collect my package and punch in the code to open the box.
I know what it is before I open it—a limited-edition exclusive box set of the James Bond collection in anniversary covers—it’s the perfect distraction from basketball and her.
There is only so much television or sports a guy can watch.
I move the box to the side, and my heart sinks when I spot the envelope that lies underneath.
Fuck.
Red ink stands out in large letters on white paper.
RETURN TO SENDER
Underlined twice.
At lightning speed, mucus forms a ball at the back of my throat as I try to swallow the heavy feeling in my gut.
We are done.
I lean both hands on the desk and lower my head, my wrists taking all the weight, and find myself struggling to hold back the emotion.
Toughen up and get the hell over it.
Or fight.
I’ve never laid down in a game and accepted a loss before the final siren.
It was the wrong time to send it. There weren’t enough weeks or months that passed for her to heal.
She needs more time.
It’s the least I can offer her.
Then I remember what my mother used to tell me when things didn’t go my way. It’s also fitting for love. “Sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.”
I don’t care if it takes weeks, months, or years.
I’ll wait.
That’s how much Charlotte Hendricks means to me.