Page 22 of A Shot at Love
High: Jadea has four dunks during the game, including a fast break assist from me. We beat the Fever 109–101. Coach Rembert tells us we have four games remaining until the playoffs, and we only need to win two of them to secure our number one seed in the East and earn a first-round bye. Olabisi and Jadea get into a water fight, and the locker room erupts into chaos. I apologize to the janitor, asking for more towels, but I’m hiding a smile.
Low: We walk towards the tunnel during halftime, talking animatedly to each other and waving to the few Arrows fans in the crowd. I’ve barely stepped into the tunnel when I see a man moving closer to the railing, as though he’s desperate for an autograph. It does happen sometimes, especially to Jadea, who is just a few steps in front of me. I’m about to point him out to her when he shouts, “Nepo bitch! Tell your father to go to Hell!” It only takes a beat to realize he’s talking to me, and then I’m knocked out of step by a plastic cup that he’s thrown at my head. I feel the ding of pain on my temple and then the sweet stickiness of what smells like Dr. Pepper trickling down my neck onto my red uniform. Taherah is walking next to me, and grabs hold of my arm. “Annie! Are you alright?”
I blink at her once in confusion and look at the man who threw the cup, who is now arguing with some fans by the bleacher railing. “I-I think I’m fine.” My voice is trembling. I’m genuinely shocked, unsure how to react. Occasionally, heckling leads to something this extreme, but I’ve never been the target of it before. It’s also more common at high-tension games with lots of people, like at NBA games.
Jadea whirls around, and the rest of the team notices it too. “What happened?” she demands, her eyes tracing over my wet, red face and the cup on the ground. “Who did this?” She sounds furious, and I react the exact opposite, eyes welling with tears.
Typical.
Taherah looks up at the stands again, but the cup-thrower has disappeared. Probably knew that he was about to get into trouble. “It’s fine,” I choke out, taking a step forward. “Let’s just go.”A confrontation is beneath us, especially when I’m not hurt. It’s not unusual for people to hate billionaires and their offspring.
Taherah doesn’t let it go, glancing between Lynn and Jadea. “He called her a nepo bitch. It sounds like he hates Jack.”
Lynn looks at me sharply, and I can’t help the embarrassment that almost chokes me. This scandal has gotten so out of control that now fans are throwing drinks at me as if I’m the bad act at an open mic night.
Jadea is incensed. “We have to find this guy and tell security. Coach Rembert!” Jadea is looking around, but our coaching staff has already walked ahead into thelocker room. “This isn’t okay. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
The best response is to keep moving, not make a fuss. I swallow and hook arms with Jadea. “Come on.” I pull her, still protesting, to the locker room, ignoring the curious gazes of fans nearby.
We’re about to step out of sight of the court when Taherah says, “Wait, look.” Her voice is low with awe. Jadea and I turn around, my other teammates clustered at our backs like soldiers. It’s Daniel, standing on the sideline with a camera in his hand. He’s with two security guards, gesturing between what’s on the screen and the crowd. We’re too far away to hear what’s being said, but Daniel eventually points out someone in the crowd, and it’s definitely the man who threw the cup at me. Security nods resolutely and calmly collects the angry man, who shouts at Daniel and the security staff as they escort him out.
Daniel glances at the tunnel as he crosses the court to be with his crew, and I swear we hold glances for a moment. I feel avenged. He didn’t make a scene. He didn’t punch the guy out or have a macho shouting match over my honor. He just did what needed to be done.
Sexiest thing ever.
“That was amazing.” Taherah sounds breathless, the romantic she is.
Now Jadea pullsmeback towards the tunnel, even as my gaze feels attached to Daniel. I watch his walkthrough the crowd, his gesturing to his crew, his laugh and smile as they exchange jokes.
Jadea’s voice snaps me back. “He’sperfect.” She doesn’t say it as a compliment, but as though he’s the perfect pawn for her scheme. Like she has a plan and wants him to be the star of it.
High: Jadea doesn’t mention her scheming after that, and I hope that in the flurry of basketball and her caring for me (i.e., helping me wipe off a lukewarm, syrupy Dr. Pepper stain), she’s forgotten about it. She does sneak a few extra looks my way, but I’m hoping it’s only out of emotional concern.
Low: The moment where I get hit in the head by the drink and the man’s aggressive, “Nepo bitch!” goes viral on Twitter. I just can’t escape social media. Jadea shows me several clips of them debating the attack on ESPN and various other sports shows. While those clips are more professional and agree that the man should be banned from the stadium for his obscene behavior, social media is not so kind.
One tweet reads:I think the drink is kind of extreme, but people shouldn’t ignore what he said. Why is she still playing?
High: Daniel texts me a video link to the first-ever U.S. women’s basketball game at the Olympics, which we won triumphantly. I watch the game three times on the bus and try not to give in and call Daniel. Shouldn’t these feelings be gone after all this time?
The final low of the 48-hour road-trip: My mom calls twice, and I don’t call her back. I remember reserving hertickets for this Indiana game, since it’s not too far from St. Louis, but I didn’t see her in her usual spot next to Jadea’s mom. We never fight, and so it turns out that when it finally happens, neither of us is a good fighter. I’m still that ostrich, with its big, dumb head in the sand.
*
Jadea and I have a tradition on off days during the season. They are few and far between. The WNBA has a 44-game schedule, and we usually play two or three times a week. And if we aren’t playing games, we’re practicing or having team meetings. To have a full day to ourselves feels like a breath of fresh air. No Twitter. No hecklers in the stands. No Trenton or Jack. No Daniel. Just Jadea and I relaxing.
We usually go to brunch at an old-fashioned diner, Suzy’s, just down the street from our apartments. Then I drag Jadea thrifting, which she has just enough interest in because of the possibility of finding a vintage sneaker or a t-shirt with Michael Jordan on it. Mostly, we laugh and try on the most absurd things we can find. Fuzzy bucket hats. Mom jeans with small mirrors up the leg. Elton John-style sunglasses. Platform sneakers with rainbow rhinestones on the toe.
I may or may not have bought all of those things at one time.
I’m sitting in our usual booth, the one with a small tear in the baby blue leather seat and a coffee stain on the table. I’m not surprised to arrive first, and neither is our usual waitress, Bethany, who waves at me before goingback to her other tables. She knows Jadea will probably show up in a flurry of activity in the next few minutes.
My best friend does not disappoint.
She looks like she possibly sprinted down the block, her braids whipping behind her and her chest heaving. She nearly topples into our booth, and I smile apologetically at the other people eating nearby who look our way. “Sorry!” Jadea huffs. “I meant to actually be on time today so you wouldn’t feel ambushed, but unfortunately, I saw him walking and I was only a few steps ahead, so, sorry—”
“Jadea!” I wave a hand in her face. “Slow down! I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She readjusts so she’s sitting up straight and breathes in deeply. I gesture with my hand for her to continue. “Daniel,” she says simply. “He’s on his way.” I gape at her, not understanding a word coming out of her mouth, but then I see him.
