Page 67 of Rookie Season
My heart skips as he trots onto the court.
Is he as distracted as I am?
I analyze his tilted chin and smile to acknowledge the crowd.
I could be in the box right now with my friends.
But I have to look out for myself. If we tried and failed, I’d not only feel like a total idiot, but it would risk screwing up everything I’ve worked for here.
I glance around to see where the patrons’ attention is directed, then discreetly turn the nearest TV to another channel.
A couple of people protest. “Sierra! What’re you doing?”
“It’s on the other five,” I remind them, pointing at the next closest screen.
Flicking through channels, I settle on Nat Geo. Some bunnies are playing in the forest.
Good. Bunnies are good.
I throw myself into work, pouring beers and mixing the occasional cocktail.
It works pretty well, until the bar erupts with cheers when the Kodiaks score or boos when LA does.
After the first quarter, the Kodiaks are up by a little.
“Did you see that play?” Pete taps the bar excitedly. “Ryan’s going to be the next franchise player.”
“He’s earning his keep, but I wouldn’t go that far,” one of his friends counters.
“What do you think, Sierra?”
The bottle of whisky under the bar is calling my name.
It’s not clear whether a drink of it would clear my head of Ryan or make me remember the times we were together.
I ignore the bottle and force myself to watch the replay: Jay moves down the court with the ball, Miles streaks toward the perimeter for a three, Jay fakes passing to Miles and goes instead to Ryan, who cuts toward the basket for a dunk.
“I think he loves the game and this town and we’d be lucky to have him,” I say.
During halftime, I appreciate the relief of not having Ryan on the screen every second.
“Sierra?”
I look up to see a courier in a Santa hat holding a purple-wrapped package with a red bow. “I didn’t order anything.”
“It’s a gift. Can you please sign?”
I reluctantly comply, thanking the guy, and set the package on the bar.
“What is it?” Pete demands.
“I know what comes in that paper!” one of his friends says.
“I’m not opening it.”
“You have to!” the guys insist. “It’s Christmas!”
I wipe down the bar so everything is extra clean, then I take out the card.
