Chapter 20
brANDON
At five-thirty in the morning, I turn off the phone alarm and check for any new messages.
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
Well, sweetheart, I can do this all day.
Scrolling the list of unanswered texts I sent to Charlotte, I begin a new one.
Good morning, Lottie. Hope you have a good day. Don’t forget to add flowers as a work hazard to your HR report.
I head to the bathroom, then change, ready for training. On the drive to the arena, I open a new playlist, one that reminds me more of Charlotte than the usual motivational tracks. Most of the guys are already on the court by the time I arrive, with one notable absence.
When Byron and I trained together, we were the first to arrive, the last to leave.
We’d include an extra session most days.
While his form is one of the best on the court, his mindset is not the same.
I doubt it’s avoidance of my sudden arrival.
He isn’t that shallow. If his family offers contentment with new dreams and goals, then I’m happy for him.
For as long as I can remember, playing ball was the only thing driving him to find that joy and succeed in playing at the highest level.
Hell, I am aware we can’t play ball forever—our bodies will only carry us for so long.
I respect that he has found a life after basketball because all signs indicate that this might be his last year.
Every player wants to end on a high—a championship—not forced from the game by a premature career-ending injury, which I almost caused him.
Before moving back to LA, I decided this season would be my last. Now, after seeing Charlotte, every emotion I locked away has burst through the locked door of my mind, and I feel everything from when we were together. I’m not wasting this chance for us.
Grabbing my sweat towel and water bottle, I head out to the court and send her another text.
I will get this championship for you. I promise.
It’s a big fucking promise, but it’s the only plan I have.
I walk out to the court and shoot around before the rest of the team arrives. By the time the team and Coach Mathews walk in, I have worked up a sweat. Taking a seat to rest for a minute, I wipe my brow and take electrolytes with my water. I’m going to sweat like a motherfucker.
Byron strolls in, fresh-faced and smiling.
A number of thoughts run through my mind when he takes the seat beside me.
The one seat separating us is occupied by my phone and sweat towel.
My phone dings, and a message pops up on the screen.
It gains both our attention, and he looks down at the same time as I do.
STOP MESSAGING ME!
Fuck.
I wipe my brow, the air between us turning cold. Keeping my focus straight ahead, I say, “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I highly fucking doubt it, or you wouldn’t be sitting here like you’re untouchable. By the time I finish, you’re going to wish you licked piss off a stinging nettle to convince the Stingers to let you stay rather than drag your sorry ass back to LA.”
Byron has always made me smile but fuck, he means it. “I’m going to get you a championship.” I turn and look him in the eye. “I’m going to make you look like the best fucking player in the league.”
He narrows his gaze at me. “Your promises are written on a toilet roll, and I’m going to wipe my ass with it.”
I stand. “I mean it. It’s what you’ve always wanted. And then you stay the fuck out of Lottie’s and my lives.”
He springs to his feet. “Not on your fucking life. You’re the last person I want her with.”
I shrug, and his face turns a shade of red. For God’s sake, don’t poke the bear. “So you want me to leave now, quit ball, and just go home?”
“Nothing would make me happier.”
I slowly nod while anger builds in my chest. “You’re the one who’s full of shit. You can’t do this without me. And if I do…” I point a finger at him. “Do you think she’ll be truly happy? Tell me, how many people has she been with since I’ve been gone? Did she care for any of them?”
“I don’t fucking know. Her life is—”
“You should take time to know. From what I see, your sister has been fucking miserable.” His ignorance of Charlotte’s feelings has my blood boiling. River walks in, and we both turn. I grind my teeth until my jaw aches. “Do you think he’s right for her?”
He grunts.
“Tell me someone who loved her more than me.”
“You. Fucking. Left,” he snaps, his anger soaring.
“I left for you,” I snap back, then head out on the court. Think about that, motherfucker.
“On the court now, now!” Coach yells from the end line.
“Bull-fucking-shit,” he says low and deep, but I hear him. Then he’s beside me, bumping my shoulder as he runs past.
“I’m done running,” I say loud enough.
“BJ and Byron,” Coach bellows. “You two are running while the rest of your team trains.” He points to the edge of the court. “Start now.”
“The fuck?” Byron moans.
“The next time you two want to argue, it will be from the fucking bench.” We break into a jog. “And stick together.”
After the first lap, Byron waits until we are earshot away from Coach. “Nothing changes. You stay the hell away from her.”
I smile. He’s been thinking about it. “Not happening.”
Another five laps. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“I’ve had worst threats.”
Lap twenty. “This world is made up of deceivers and believers. Guess which one you are.”
I grin. “A fucking believer,” I pant out. “I believe in this team. I believe in us. And I—”
“Don’t fucking say it.”
Lap thirty. “You can forgive yourself for thinking you love her and that we were friends. Everything changed the moment you lied to us both. There is no coming back from that.”
“I once believed that, too, but I’m not that guy anymore. Time is all I had, and now that I’m back, I’m not wasting a second by staying away just to please you.”
He jumps in front of me and jogs backward. The intimidating glare in his eyes would have once silenced me.
“You two on the court.” Byron turns on Coach’s command. “Join in the game. BJ, you take the ball. Byron is your opponent.”
Byron grins as though he has the upper hand. “Let’s fucking do this.”
I make my move on him to drive to the basket, but he deliberately trips me.
“Whoa,” Simpson says and offers me a hand.
I spring to my feet. “I’m all good.” I walk up to Byron and lean in close enough for him to hear.
“You wanna hurt me? Then you hurt the team and yourself. I’m your best ticket to finals.
Remember that, fucker.” He growls out something under his breath.
“I’m the only person who makes you look good on the court. ”
“I don’t need you. I’ve been doing fine for years.” He squats low in a defensive stance and lays a hand on my hip, ready to stop me.
I leap into a shot and make it over his head, giving him a satisfied smirk. “Yeah? But how far has it gotten you?”
“You better fucking close that trap of yours.”
I grin at myself. “Offer still stands.”
For the next half hour, Byron pushes, shoves, and runs me into the ground.
I do the same to him. While much of it stems from anger and frustration rolled into one, the rough handling is ideal to elevate us to the next level and prepare us for the pressure of finals.
So rather than complain, I count down the minutes until I’m submerged in an ice bath.
At least it has stopped me thinking about Charlotte.
For the next week, I asked my chef to serve up two plates at dinner. Every night, I take a photograph and send it to Charlotte with no message attached. The image tells its own story—dinner with me.
Tonight, I receive a reply.
I’m not your fucking dietician. I don’t need to see your food.
At first, I laugh. I need another plan, so after contemplating ideas she can’t destroy, I message Jobe as he has believed in us from the start.
Hey, Jobe. Two years ago in New York, you told me that when you find that special person in your life, you move heaven and earth and fix whatever damage I have done. Enough time has passed, and now I need your help.
I get a reply immediately.
Sorry, BJ. I’m in London on business. If you don’t want to wait another week, try contacting Franklin. If I were you, I wouldn’t wait.
What does he know?
Christ, Franklin is next level. What the fuck do I say? He’s the most time-poor person I know, and he’ll get angry with me asking for ideas, but no one knows Charlotte better than her brothers.
Hi, Franklin. I apologize for the late notice, but is it possible to get a table booking at Bloom in the next week?
Franklin’s exquisite restaurant is one of the most sought-after in LA, and I already know the answer.
My phone buzzes.
Franklin is calling…
Bloody Hell.
“BJ, I’m getting straight to the point. Does this booking have anything to do with my sister?”
“It does. I’ve been trying for weeks, but she won’t answer my texts. I need help to get her to meet me for dinner.”
“If she doesn’t want to see you, there’s nothing I can do. She only agreed for you to return with the chance you’ll accelerate the team’s win.”
“And that is my intention. On a personal note, I need her to listen to me without the consequence of Byron if he finds out.”
“You’re digging a big hole for yourself with my family.”
Don’t I know it. “It’s the risk I’m willing to take. Lottie and I were happy together. We deserve another chance. But she’s afraid and doesn’t want to disappoint Byron.”
“Unfortunately, that isn’t the only reason. She’s also afraid of you hurting her again. I doubt she’ll give you another chance.”
“Please allow me to try. Ask Lottie herself how she feels about me. If she hates me, then I’ll accept it.” Because nothing screamed hate when we were alone.
“You’re asking me to deceive not one but two of my siblings.”
Panic swells up inside of me. “I’m desperate, sir.”
He mumbles something under his breath about having enough to do without being a matchmaker. “Do you mind if I pass the task to Penny?”
I grin. “Not at all.”