Page 20 of A Shot at Love
“Don’t apologize.” Daniel’s voice is firm. He takes a couple of steps towards me, into a pocket of fluorescent light. “Everything you said was true. We took screenshots of the comments to show our viewers. You shared what you were feeling in the moment. Nothing wrong with that.” He smiles then, though it looks a little softer than I’ve seen these past few days. A little more personal, a little less man-on-the-silver-screen.
I huff and throw another shot up. It clangs off the rim loudly. Daniel wordlessly passes it back to me. “I can’t just say how I feel. Sometimes I don’t evenknowhow I feel. I know that the WNBA is frequently ignored. I know that some of the most amazing fans in sports struggle to find our games on TV. I know that when one of us gets hurt, the injury might not even make mainstream news. I know that every time we dunk and prove ourselves, men get more disgusted that they might have to tune in.” I dribble emphatically with each point. “But the WNBA also isn’t perfect. I know that straight, white girls like me have more media and sponsorship opportunities. I know that there are sometimes toxic coaches or teams. It happens. This scandal with Jack, Trenton, and my…family, where does that fit in? If the league’s investigation confirms all the mismanagement Jack has been accused of, what will this team do? They would not be remiss in getting rid of me. I understand that. I benefited from underhanded activity, even if I knew nothing about it. But…” I trail off, feeling like I’m talking in circles.If I were trying to be a moral person, a good person, what would that hypothetical person do?Should I bow out of the season? Should the league suspend me for a few games as punishment? Am I being selfish if I want to play?
If that’s what I want to do forever?
Daniel steps even closer to me, effectively blocking my next compulsive, agitated shot. He opens his hands, and I pass the ball to him. He turns it over, admiring it, and then looks at me. “But…” he continues softly, “you were an All-Star this year. You’re second in the league in assists and fifth in steals. You and Jadea have created an exciting identity for a new team, with the help of Lynn, Olabisi, Allyson, and all your teammates. It’s okay to admit you love what you have, and you feel like you deserve it, Annie. It’s okay to fight for it.”
My eyes are watering as usual, though it’s difficult to tell what kind of tears they are. Desperate, angry, sad? Hopeful, when I really look at the belief shining in Daniel’s face?
I’m about to respond when Daniel asks, “Do you want to play some one-on-one?” There’s a teasing quality in his tone, even if I can’t fully see the sparkle in his eye.
“Right now?” I say, barking out a laugh. “Sure, why not?”
“You first.” He bounces the ball to me, and we start at the top of the key, both trying to score on the same basket. Half-court play.
I don’t want to brag—but I am a WNBA player and All-Star, as Daniel just pointed out. So, I start small. I dribble the ball a few times between my legs, switchhands, stalk back and forth across the top of the key. Daniel keeps his eyes on me, the distance between us less than a foot. I carefully avoid his bad leg, the left one, but then dart past him and score the easy lay-up.
Daniel groans good-naturedly, and I pump my fist. “Your turn.” When Daniel has the ball at the top, I give him a bit more room to breathe.
It only seems fair.
What doesn’t seem fair is Daniel taking advantage of that space and shooting an easy three-point shot. The ball swishes through the basket behind me, and I spin around to face him, mouth open. “You didn’t use to be able to do that!”
In fact, Daniel used to have abysmal aim. As a track star, he could absolutely keep up on defense, but his shot was terrible. The Daniel of today shrugs, a cocky smile tilting up the dimple. “I play pick-up every weekend with some people in New York.”
I huff impatiently at his response, and we go again, playing the first to ten points. In the end, I win. It’s close enough to make Daniel happy, and with a decent enough gap to makemehappy. When I win it 10–6, I jump a little in excitement. “Yes!” I point at him. “Victory for Annie Larger! Just like the old days!”
It’s a familiar routine from our time together at Stanford, one that usually involved the loser pouting for a few hours, but Daniel isn’t pouting. Instead, there’s a softness in his face, his eyes. He looks like he’s proud of me. For winningpick-up basketball.
“You’re different now,” I blurt out, discombobulated by his graceful and kind losing face. “Than when we were dating.”
Daniel freezes for a moment, clutching the ball hard. I can see the whites of his knuckles. After a strange moment of tension, he releases a sigh. Straightens. Smiles, just a little. “Iamdifferent. The accident changed me. I had to start over.”
I want to protest, but instead I wipe some sweat off my brow, stalling my quick tongue. I couldn’t have been a part of that future? Or he couldn’t have at least let me know he needed to move on? I don’t want to ruin the moment by arguing over the past, so I say, “You were so intense, mostly about track. Not to say you couldn’t be social when you needed to be, but you smiled less. You were moodier, more focused on your goals than partying or meeting with friends.” I tilt my head, studying him and wishing he weren’t so beautiful. He looks like an angel standing in the strange, low fluorescents, eyes shadowed and skin gleaming. “We just stayed in every day and watched sports. Hit the gym together. I went to your track meets, and we analyzed your times. You went to my games, and we analyzed my shots. Now, you’ve lost that obsessive edge. That frenetic energy.”It’s difficult to describe how I feel about the softer, kinder Daniel. He’s wonderful, but I thought he was wonderful before. I thought we were wonderful together.
Daniel’s smile wavers a bit. “I had to lose it, remember? I couldn't run hurdles with a steel rod in my leg and a partially collapsed lung.” I remember arguingwith a nurse about Daniel’s accident when I was first called to the hospital. I said numbly that it couldn’t be possible that he had been hit; he always wore reflective strips when he ran. He was always cautious, focused,safe. The nurse told me Daniel had a broken femur, three broken ribs, and a collapsed lung. He was lucky to be alive, and he would never run hurdles again.
“Is that why we broke up?” I try to say it tactfully, but the words still have that bitter edge. “Because we couldn’t do the same things anymore? Would it be too painful to watch me play?” A small part of me can understand that. What would our relationship have been like? Would he have resented me? Would I have made myself smaller to fit into his new environment?
“Annie.” Daniel’s eyes are burning as he looks at me. His voice is strangled. “I’m so terribly sorry for how I left things. My life was falling apart, and I took it out on you.”
“And now my life is falling apart, and you showed up to help,” I volley back at him. “But would you have shown up if Jadea hadn’t called?” It’s a cutting response, but one he doesn’t duck away from. The Daniel I used to know was a bit of a sore loser, someone who avoided giving in and saying sorry. Now he appears calm and contrite. He feels like a stranger, albeit a likable one.
“Do you remember your first game in the league?” Daniel smoothly changes the subject. I blink and then nod. I was so nervous before we went out that I started bawling incoherently in the locker room. When I blubbered apologies to my teammates, Jadea put her arm around me. Olabisi rolled her eyes and put a SarahMcLachlan song on the speaker, causing me to snort with laughter. Coach Rembert looked at her watch and told me, “Thirty seconds of fear. And then forty minutes of fearlessness.” I looked at them all, and it hit me. This could be my second family, if I let it. We’d fight and get tired of each other and sometimes let the politics of the game get to us, but we’d love each other. I scored four points in the 12 minutes I played. Even better, I passed Jadea the winning assist.
It was a different kind of lightning in a bottle. More like the brewing of a spectacular storm.
Daniel interrupts my musing with his own recollection. “Of course, I had to pay for some ridiculous TV streaming service to get the game because it wasn’t on any of the main channels.” My mouth falls open. My first game was only a month after his accident. That story about me playing at Gonzaga, that makes sense. But watching me in the WNBA, after he disappeared on me? I struggle to believe him. “I even shared my account information with the Stanford Athletic Department, and they had a viewing party for you and Jadea at the student union. I desperately wanted to see you achieve your dream, and the utter disbelief on your face when you made your first basket and Jadea pointed at you…it was that same magic as when I first saw you play against Gonzaga.”
There’s a pause. “There was pain that time, when I watched.” He doesn’t elaborate on what kind of pain he means. “But I couldn’t miss it. I never had that moment of achieving my dream. I never ran at the Olympics or atthe Diamond League, but you’re in the WNBA. Now that your dream is in jeopardy…I would have found a way to be here now, with or without Jadea.”
“But-but…” I’m stammering, completely thrown off by his admission, “…you’re a Liberty fan.”
There’s a beat where he’s giving me a confused look, and then he lets out a huge laugh. “Annie.” He’s fully grinning now. “That’s all you can think to say?”
I cross my arms petulantly, trying to hide the blush suffusing my face. “You are a confusing man.” I want to sound grumpy, but there is an undeniable note of affection in my voice. Maybe Daniel just needed to get his head on straight after the accident. While I don’t agree with the methodology he chose for that fresh start, maybe I understand it. Plus, he still cared enough to watch me play, even when we weren’t together. I try to let my guard down a bit. “Thank you for being here. It helps.”
The smile he gives me in response is out of a movie. A victorious, glorious smile. I blush even deeper. Trying to distract myself and make the moment last, I pass him the ball. “Switch with me. I need to study your new and improved shot.”
