Page 31 of A Shot at Love
Daniel scoffs, and we merge to the front. “You justwantto be first. Very different.”
The run is a 5k, and we run all five with delight. I’m sweating pretty heavily by the final mile, and so is Daniel. We’re definitely pushing the pace a little at the front, but the tunes and enthusiasm from the group never waver. It feels like we’re flying down the sidewalks.
As we near the end, I take a celebratory video of the group running, making sure to get Daniel’s gleaming and grinning face in the clip. In retaliation, he takes onetoo, focusing on me next to him. I try to block the camera, but he just laughs and zooms in more.
A surge of disappointment goes through me when I see the finish line. That half hour of running was without thought. It was joyous, ebullient, freeing. I thank the organizers of the event profusely and they thank the Arrows for their $1500 donation. Daniel, to show me up and because he’s a good person, writes them a check for another $5000.
We walk back to the parking garage in contented silence. I’m humming Whitney quietly as we reach the last block before the car. Daniel is the one who speaks first. “Annie.” I’m so surprised by his tone that my head snaps in his direction. He sounds soft, nervous. “Thank you. I really couldn’t have done that without you.”
I shake my head immediately. “Youdid it, Daniel. The only thing I did was believe that you could.”
He takes a deep breath. “I should tell you the truth, the reason why I never reached out after the accident, the reason I just left the hospital without a wor—”
I put a finger to his lips. We’re entering the elevators now, climbing up to our very last few moments of the night. “Daniel, I want to hear all that. I do. But tonight…it was one of the best nights of my life. And I kind of want to keep it that way, you know?”
It’s an awkward explanation, but I want him to understand that sparkling feeling in my chest. I want him to see I need this uncomplicated joy, and I think he does, too.
The elevator dings to tell us we’re on our floor. “Yes,” he finally says, softly, “I think I know exactly what you mean.”
The short ride back to my apartment is filled with more of that warm silence. I lean my head against the window, trying not to think about tomorrow. About seeing my mom, about winning our last few games, about Jack and Trenton.
He pulls up in front of my building, and I startle. “Oh, we should probably post those videos we took at the run,” I tell him, forlornly taking off my glow stick halo. “Jadea thought it would look so great on camera.”
“I will,” he promises, and there’s an awkward moment where we’re automatically leaning towards each other, as though to kiss or embrace or melt into each other.
This time, it’s me who remembers the scheme. The farce of our relationship. “Thanks, Daniel,” I say evenly, getting out of the car. “I had a wonderful time.”
“Me too.” Another whisper of a smile and then he’s off into the night. I climb the stairs up to my apartment and flick on the lights inside. I rummage through the cabinets until I find my only vase. The flowers in the bouquet Daniel gave me puff up proudly in their new home, and I wish I didn’t miss Daniel as much as I do. I wish I could have asked him up. I wish we could go back and redo all the mistakes we made.
Instead, I hurry to bed. It’s only a little after 10:30 PM, but I have a noon game tomorrow, so I’ll need to beup pretty early. I set my alarms and lay out the equipment I’ll need for tomorrow.
I’m about to put my phone away and turn off the light when I see I’ve been tagged in Daniel’s Instagram post. It’s the video of me running beside him and then a quick cut to the rest of the group who cheer when they see the camera. A very cute and happy video. Jadea will be pleased.
I almost miss the caption, but when I finally read it, my heart skips a beat.
@DanielChan: Thanks @AnnieLarger for lighting up my life. Best date I’ve ever had.
Daniel Chan. Why does he make this so hard? Why do I? We’re caught in a romantic web of our own making, but as we get more tangled, we’ll only start hurting each other to get free.
But I don’t regret the date. How could I?
12
There is nothing like being on the court with my team. The lights, the fans, that moment where the referee throws the ball up for jump ball, and everyone flows into their game. I love that feeling: the sweat that drips down your temple, the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears, the gasp of your breath.
I’m not a daredevil. An adrenaline junkie. But sometimes, out there, I feel like I’m chasing a competitive high that is unreachable. Like my fingers are stretching both towards the ball and towards that feeling of flying.
Tonight, I don’t feel any of that.
The first thing I notice when I head to the court for warm-ups is two neon green posters held by Indiana Fever fans. The first reads:Jack Smith = Another corrupt billionaire.
The second reads:Annie Smith = Washed-up nepo baby.
I wait to feel something. Jack probably deserves to be taken down a peg, but couldn’t they leave me out of it? The moral dilemma is endlessly messy, and I understand that some fans are frustrated that I was drafted by my father. Even if I didn’t know what was happening behind the scenes, I still potentially stole another player’s spot in the league. It’s an agonizing prospect to imaginesomeone losing their dream because my billionaire sperm donor had a crisis of conscience in his old age.
Fortunately, Jadea has enough anger for both of us. The two signs are only a few rows into the stands, and she looks ready to climb up there. “Washed up?” she growls, aggressively dribbling the ball during warm-ups. “You were an All-Star this year! You’re only behind Caitlin Clark in assists, and she’s a future Hall of Famer.”
“Nothing to say about the nepo baby part?” I try to joke, but it comes out bitter.
