Page 4 of A Shot at Love
When she sits down, I notice she’s already crying. I get those trigger-ready tears from her. Whether it’s a sad commercial for ASPCA, a colleague’s break-up, or a failing grade on an exam, they’re hard to squash. I’ve spent years trying to curtail them, at least in public.
I wait for my mom to say something, but I know she’s doing the same thing. As a school social worker, she knows how to let that silence bleed until you cave. “Mom.” I swallow some of my own tears down and try to focus. “Why didn’t you tell me about Jack?”
Her watery green eyes train on me. “Well—”
I hold up a hand. “No. Not when I was a kid. Not in college. I understand that. I imagine he was some smooth-talking, charming one-night stand who was very uninterested in having a kid. He already had one. But when I got drafted, Mom.” Here, my voice cracks, and she places a shaky hand on her forehead. My words turn pleading. “He owns the team. Me, essentially. And I never knew. Do you know what I could be accused of? What he could be? And because I didn’t know about him, about this situation, I have no defense! No plan!”
“Defense?” My mom looks bewildered. The words surge out of her, jumbled and quick. “Against what? We had a brief affair. I was drowning in grad schoolwork, catering on the side for extra cash. We met at one of his foundation dinners. He was exciting and said he was separated from his wife, and he helped distract me—”
I cut her off. “I would never accuse you of breaking up a marriage. If he lied or went back to his wife, that’s in the past. We’ve made it 25 years without him, and personally, I believe we could go a hundred more.” I lean forward and grab her hands, holding fast. “But I love basketball, Mom. I love it more than breathing. I breathebetterwhen I play.” There’s some anger now in my words. I’m probably gripping her hands too hard. “And now there’s a real chance I could lose it. All I can think is—do I deserve to be on the Arrows? Was he involved in drafting me? Did he insist upon it? Do you knowanything?”
The understanding that floods my mom’s face is both a relief and a blow. If she doesn’t know anything,she isn’t complicit in anything that goes against league regulations or good sportsmanship. However, I’m still in the dark about Jack. How to defend myself when I don’t know the truth?
My mom shakes her head, her top knot bouncing precariously. “When I told him I was pregnant, he explained that he had decided to stay with his wife. We had only been together a couple months, and I think a part of me expected him to back out. He was in his forties and had been with Tiffany for decades. To rip that apart—I understood. I was a fling. A billionaire’s fling.” I flinch at her harsh words. “When he said he didn’t want to be in your life, I was almost relieved. I felt very sure about you, Annie Bananie.” My childhood nickname falls easily out of her mouth as she squeezes my hand. “He offered to make a child support agreement, but I didn’t want his money. I told him to leave you to me.” She takes a shaky breath. “And he did. I sent him a picture of you each year growing up, and he sent a thank you card. That’s it.”
The flood of information is overwhelming. My mom has always been a free spirit. She has a few tattoos from her youth she regrets, a propensity towards wearing overalls, a delightful habit of singing every morning to wake you up, a few boyfriends, but nothing that stuck—the best mom. To imagine her standing up to a billionaire at twenty-four is shocking. I knew I had a biological father out there who hadn’t wanted to be in our lives, but besides a few moody years as a teen, I never let that fact bother me. I had Elaine Larger, the mom whorefereed my childhood one-on-one games with a bright orange whistle around her neck.
I try to gather more information. “But what about when I was drafted? You knew he owned the Arrows. When they were first founded, he was always on the news.”
I remembered when Jack announced it. St. Louis hadn’t had a basketball team in decades and when he announced not only an NBA team, but also a WNBA team, my heart started pounding. I was just beginning college and suddenly playing for my hometown was possible. The WNBA was gaining traction, albeit very slowly. Maybe women could become household names—just like Steph, MJ, and LeBron are. I overlooked Jack Smith’s silver spoon money, made in the 1800s from his family’s Arch Railways, and instead saw a man who was willing to bet a tiny bit of his money on women. Onoursuccess.
My mom lets go of my hands guiltily. “I knew I should say something. When you were drafted…higher than you thought, I wondered if he was trying to be a parent. Just that one little blip. And I…understood.” My jaw drops. “He’s not your father. I don’t consider him to be. But maybe when he saw that you might lose your dream, he couldn’t resist. I didn’t want to tell you, because…I don’t know. It could have just been a coincidence.”
I feel a flash of cold, then an even brighter one of hot anger. I stand up. “Mom, this wasn’t justmydream. It was hundreds, maybe thousands of women’s dreams!Getting drafted into the league is almost impossible. There are only fourteen teams, and each year, they have only one or two spots available. Even if you’re drafted, you could be cut soon afterwards! What if I took someone’s spot?” The tears flood back in, and they feel scorching as they race down my hot cheeks. I angrily wipe a few away.
Mom shrinks a bit under my glare but fights back. “You are a starter in this league, Annie! You’ve proved your worth. You run that offense; you have more assists than almost anyone in the league. You average over two steals a game. That’s proof!”
I laugh bitterly. “We got lucky, Mom. I worked hard. I glowed under the idea that the Arrows believed me to be something more than I was. I got to be on the same team as Jadea, the best player under thirty in theentire leagueand my best friend in the world.I managed to slap myself together and become a good player.” I take a deep breath to stop the flow of tears, letting some of my disgust slip into my words. “And now that hard work and growth might be taken away or diminished because I’m some nepo baby. And who knows what else? We’re completely in the dark about what Jack has done behind the scenes.”
I almost feel bad when I see my mom’s eyes watering again. If anyone understands that feeling of overflowing emotion, it’s me. She manages to croak out, “He might have done nothing. You know owners.”
She means that all owners are different. And though Jack is the majority owner, he’s not the only one involved in deciding which players to draft. There’s CoachRembert, our GM and head coach, and tons of other front office staff. Any of them could have suggested drafting me, and if itweresomeone else, that might make this situation less murky. Maybe I’m just a philanderer’s love child and not the eye of a WNBA shitstorm.
I stiffen my spine, resolved. “I’ll talk to Coach tomorrow. See if she can shed any light on my draft. I’ll text you when I hear.” It’s as good as a dismissal because I can’t look at her yet. I can’t reconcile the memory of her blowing that orange whistle while Jadea and I played pick-up basketball on the driveway with the beaten-down image before me. She nods once and gets up from the couch.
“Annie, I’m sorry.” She looks at me, eyes glimmering with tears. “I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
I close my eyes. Take a sharp breath through my nose. “We’ll talk later. I need some space.” It feels impossible that she would keep something so important from me, yet here we are. “Don’t talk to the press,” I add sharply as she opens the door to leave. She nods again and shuts it behind her.
I let my emotions truly go then. I collapse on the couch, spreading out and letting those final, silent tears out. I have a plan. Coach Rembert. Laying low. Ignoring Jack Smith and his family. Staying away from the scandal. All of these are doable. Best-case scenario, this is just personal and has nothing to do with the draft or the team or the WNBA.
Worst-case scenario? Jack has been pulling strings without me knowing it for years. I’m a fraud that he created.
I want to scream into a pillow, but instead I just lie and cry.
Stupid tears.
3
That night, I lay in bed, scrolling through social media even though I know it’s a poisonous stream. The latest tweets say more of the same, and I angrily punch the numerous decorative pillows behind my head. The one that takes the brunt of my anger is a pink sequin one that Jadea bought me for my last birthday.
I think of her, and despite her own social media addiction, I know she would tell me to turn it off. Go back to the kitchen and eat more of our Thai leftovers from earlier. Better yet, more Twizzlers. Watch more sports clips that make me cry, like Suni Lee on the balance beam and a brave Simone Biles cheering for her. Or Michael Phelps reaching up into the stands to kiss his baby after winning his 28th Olympic medal. Or Candace Parker crying as she hoists up the Chicago Sky’s championship trophy. All of those things would be better than wallowing before I have all the facts.
I’m about to close the app and go to bed when a tweet catches my eye.
I almost drop the phone on my face when I see who wrote it.
5 minutes ago
