Chapter 3
CHARLOTTE
Three years later…
Does wishing harm on someone make me a bad person?
Not in a physical way, only the pain of humiliation he inflicted upon me.
Suffer, like I have. I shouldn’t feel revengeful because the douchebag has been dead-to-me for years.
Despite all the advice from my friends on how to get over him, today has opened a raw wound of my broken heart.
Years have passed, and yet no scars formed since I never healed from the hurt.
We had a chance, and he blew it. Now, every time we play his basketball team, I’m back to feeling like I’m not worth it. Looking at him, I can’t handle the pain. Whoever said out of sight, out of mind lied. I’m sick to my stomach, a lump sitting at the back of my throat.
It’s not just another game. I want to win—no, annihilate the opposition tonight because the victory, in some weird way, will help.
Revengeful happiness. If looks could kill, the visiting team would be lying on the hardwood as my laser glare beams through my office glass window to the court below.
Not the team, just him. I’m full of bitterness, and it’s only the pregame warm-up.
Just being in the same building as Brandon Johns, I’m hit with waves of emotion changing from anger to disappointment and now revenge.
The Chicago Stingers’ tallest player dunks the ball, yet I’m not focused on him or how he’ll rip through my team’s defensive plays. I down the last drop of champagne from the crystal glass, my gaze not wavering from one particular player.
The LA Sharks will get the win. I have faith in my team and my brother, Byron. He will wipe the floor with his asshole opponent. I pray for it to happen so why the hell am I nervous?
When something bothers me, I resort to writing it on paper. I make a list, then burn it or tear it up. It’s better than emailing in frustration. Only today, it is not business-related. It’s the reason why I started to write these lists.
From my desk, I grab a pen and paper and write his name in capitals, repeating it ten times. Then I take it to the shredder, imagining it’s his face, then stride back to the glass window.
Strobe lighting flashes over the crowd—a full house. The music is dulled behind the thick glass. It’s safer to watch from a corporate box, the distraction of conversation with sponsors over food and wine more appealing than sitting close to the court and closer to him—Mr. Asshole in the flesh.
I’m usually sitting in the VIP courtside seats with my family at this time, clapping along to the beat, excited for the game.
The pads of my fingers rub at my temple, trying to ease the tension.
I barely slept last night or all week. We have played the Stingers many times over the years, and with every home game, my bitterness grows.
I need to lock up the bitch inside me that turns nerves to hate-revenge before I take a seat near my mother because God forbid I express my animosity for Brandon Johns.
After locking my door, I head down to the court, followed by my security, the camera aimed at me as I appear at the end of the tunnel. I wave and smile as though it’s my birthday. The fans cheer equally loud for me as they do for their team.
Owning an NBA team brought unexpected stardom. In Los Angeles, it’s all part of the job. Since he’s been gone, I found a place where I belong.
It’s not all candy and rainbows when I speak to the press after a losing game alongside Coach with more positivity than a smiling quokka.
The fuck?
Why did a quokka come to mind?
Why have my thoughts flipped back to six years ago when the King of Assholes himself showed me the sights of Australia, including the adorable creatures found in Western Australia.
Refusing to look at the court as the players assemble, ready for the national anthem, I take the few steps to my seat beside my parents. Giana, my brother Byron’s wife, turns and holds up two crossed fingers at me. I smile and nod, knowing we need more than luck.
Our head coach, Bruce Mathews, has mapped out every play for the LA Sharks to take down the Stingers, and if our players keep their ego under control, it should go to plan.
The music finishes, and the players divide into circles around their coaches and chant “Pride” before striding to a key spot around the center circle. Byron claps his hands to motivate our team. I don’t hear what he says as the cheering in the arena deafens all other sounds.
The ref throws the ball in the air, and our big guy taps it to Byron, only Brandon knocks Byron off his feet and steals the ball. I spring to my feet along with the rest of the crowd and shout, “Foul.”
Brandon Johns dribbles at lightning speed toward the hoop and slams it through. It silences the entire crowd back on our asses.
Fucker.
It’s a similar play from when he played for us, and our guys should have been ready.
He runs past Byron and bumps his shoulder without giving him a single look.
Byron ignores him and breaks free to receive the pass.
I’m not as calm as my brother, with my heart thumping in my chest as hatred rolls off me in waves.
Seconds later, Byron hits a three-pointer, and we take the lead.
I clap hard for my brother, stare at his opponent, and wish to hell he wasn’t here tonight.
We score again, and my heart slows a little, the tension in my stomach easing.
By the end of the first quarter, we are up by six points with Byron leading the scorers for the LA Sharks, and Brandon leading for the Stingers.
I stand at the same time as my brothers do in front of me.
“It’s a shame they are not on the same team,” Jobe says to Franklin.
Ugh.
“We don’t need BJ. Byron and River are doing fine,” Franklin tells him.
Too right. Though River, our new guard, is unpredictable.
One day, he can shoot the lights out, the next game, he barely scores, although he manages double stats in steals and assists.
River is a new crowd favorite. With his longer brown hair and handsome looks, he also plays it up to the crowd every time he scores.
“BJ is still in form after an impressive Olympic series,” Jobe replies.
“Still couldn’t beat the US Dream Team,” I say over Jobe’s shoulder.
He looks at me and smiles. “No. Nor would he beat Byron for a spot, but he did play well every game.” I roll my eyes. “I’m glad he didn’t quit. He brings something special to the game even though he isn’t our favorite player.”
“Quit? Who told you he might quit?”
“He did.”
What?
The crowd cheers, and we take our seats, ready for the second quarter to begin.
“When?” I say over Jobe’s shoulder.
“A year ago in New York,” he says as though it’s not important, his focus on the game.
Brandon scores a three-pointer after a quick pass from his teammate. I watch as he runs, his blond curls flowing behind. He’s like a model on the catwalk with a fan blowing his beautiful locks about, not a sweaty athlete.
I reflect on Jobe’s words.
A year ago…
Brandon already made the Australian Olympic squad and yet he spoke to Jobe about quitting.
My heart does a little flip. As much as I wish him bad luck, I appreciate his level of skill, and he is too young to give up the game when he has no injury or reason to quit.
Unless he is unhappy, or there is something happening with the Stingers team we don’t know about.
I shake my head as I watch him dribble down the court. What is going on inside your head, Brandon Johns? The man I remember was not a quitter. A coward but not a quitter. And now I’m staring at him more than I want to as I consider what would cause him to give up something he loved.
He gave me up easily enough.
At halftime, I’m in the corporate hospitality room with my family.
A handful of suits are talking to Giana, asking what her husband did differently this week as he is playing exceptionally well.
“He loves my specialty pasta before games,” she says, smiling at one of the corporate suits.
“And it could be the fact he works out every morning.” She looks into her champagne flute and smiles.
I hold back a laugh. “Okay, gentlemen. Mrs. Hendricks needs her space. You can talk to her after the game.” I signal to the server for a bottle of champagne, and we find a quiet table in the corner.
She places a hand on my arm. “Thank you, Lottie.” The champagne arrives immediately after we sit. “That was quick. I guess being the owner has some perks.”
“Not as many as you might think.” We clink our glasses together. “To having my sisters back.”
She smiles at me. “Thank you. You’re the sister I also never had.”
“And now we have a sisterhood within our family. Speaking of, I’ve been distracted and have not asked where Penny and Zara are tonight.”
Giana pushes her long brown hair behind her ear, studying me. “They’re at a mutual friend’s birthday celebration. Frank and Jobe are attending after the game.”
I nod and feel bad I didn’t know this.
She places a hand over mine. “You have other things on your mind.”
The way she is staring at me implies she understands it’s not only work-related.
I shrug. “I’m okay. I spoke to Coach Mathews before the game, and he mentioned trading Vince before Christmas.
” I take a sip of champagne. This part of the business is a trigger.
It reminds me of when we traded Brandon—unbeknownst to me—right before Christmas three years ago.
“Hey. I know what you’re thinking,” Giana whispers.
I blow out a heavy breath. “It’s stupid really. I hate how the players’ lives are suddenly disrupted even though it’s a business decision.”
“It didn’t just affect a player. It hurt Byron and you. I have been here for Byron, and I want you to know I’m here for you too.”
“Thanks, Gigi.” I shoot her a quick smile and turn away. We should eat some before we head out again.” Before we have a chance to move, we are joined by Jobe, who has signaled for some food.
He taps my back affectionately. “How are you holding up.”
What? “I’m fine, why?”
He nods while keeping an eye on me. “Franklin and I won’t be around for post-game socializing with the sponsors. But if you want me to stay, I will.”
“No, no, it’s not necessary. I can handle the speeches. Know the process like the back of my hand.” Ugh, that look. “Jobe, I’m fine. I know what you’re all thinking, but I won’t chance bumping into him.” Because I’ll be scanning the crowd every minute, making sure we don’t accidentally meet.
“Did you speak to Coach Mathews before the game?”
“Yes, he mentioned Vince but nothing else.”
Jobe pushes the plate of food closer to Giana and me. “Okay, I’ll see you both later. By the way, the lobster is fresh, so enjoy.” He leans down and kisses my cheek. “Look after her, Gigi.”
“For sure.” Giana raises her glass and grins at Jobe. She takes a piece of lobster and moans. “It’s really good.”
I sample a small piece, but my stomach is still in knots and doesn’t want any food.
“I spoke to your friend, Bella, this week. She came by the studio looking for an art piece.”
“Yeah?” Our glasses ting. “I’m glad she listened to my advice when it comes to the best art in LA.”
She snorts. “I don’t know about that, but thank you for the compliment…” She pauses. “Bella said you haven’t caught up in a while.”
My sister-in-law is not subtle. “I’ve been busy.”
“Time with girlfriends is therapeutic.” Her gentle eyes watch me carefully.
“So is a masseuse when I don’t need to leave the office.” Oh God, I sound like a young Franklin.
Giana frowns at me. “Call your friends, Lottie. They want to see you.”
The crowd is counting down the last few seconds of the game. We win by thirteen points. Byron played outstanding but so did Brandon. I found myself gritting my teeth every time he scored.
By now, I should have left the stands and made my way through the tunnel to the locker rooms, waiting for Coach Mathews to arrive and deliver his speech and avoid the pain of watching Brandon Johns for a second longer than I need to.
I’m curious to see how he reacts to Byron after the game.
The players on both teams shake hands and some pull the other closer with a pat on the back.
At least it wasn’t a spiteful match, and we had control the entire game.
Brandon is walking toward Byron.
My heart is in my throat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Byron holds out a hand, Brandon shakes it and pulls him in for a hug with three pats on his back.
I let out a sigh of relief. They were best friends for years before I messed everything up.
We messed up. Brandon’s gaze darts toward the VIP seats.
To me. He knows exactly where my family sits.
I should hope so. We’ve had the same seats for five years.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I see him. The gentle man I fell in love with, head over heels. The man I was willing to do anything for.
My brother pulls away, and they say something and smile before heading in the opposite direction to join their teammates.
It appears to be a small step to mend a shattered friendship.
My heart is not healing as easily. I remain frozen in the stands, waiting for him to look back, to give me anything.
Instead, he walks behind his team. Disappointment hits me along with something else.
I’ve noticed it in other games when we played the Stingers but haven’t given it much thought until now.
He doesn’t fit in.
The team dynamics are different than the LA Sharks.
While he is on top of his game, he has no unity with the team.
Brandon is doing his own thing, which is not a formula for team success.
He was happy playing in LA. If only Brandon and I approached things differently, maybe the three of us would not be stuck in a dark hole of pain and regret.
I lean forward to see the stands behind the Stingers’ seats. Never have I allowed myself to consider he has brought someone special to the game. I’m not na?ve. There are women in his life, but is there someone he is comfortable with to bring here?
He doesn’t acknowledge anyone as he walks by, and it gives minute satisfaction to know I’m not alone in this mess.
Suddenly, a brunette appears from the stands and runs to him before he enters the tunnel.
A heaviness centers in my chest. I square my shoulders, ready for the wave of emotion to crash into me.
She leaps onto him, and he casually holds her with one arm tight around her waist. All satisfaction shatters when he kisses her, then buries his face into her neck.
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me.
I look away and shiver with a vivid recollection of him kissing me and nuzzling my neck, whispering sweet promises.
Then I remember the aftermath and how he left me to deal with the fallout.
The painful knot in my chest grows a little more, and I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from the hurt.