Page 42 of A Shot at Love
“Like it will be so easy,” I mutter. I slump in my seat and wait anxiously for the last hour of our flight to pass by.
16
I seriously regret inviting Daniel over to my apartment. First, getting our baggage takes a little longer than expected, and by the time I’m back in my apartment building, it’s almost 11:30 PM. Secondly, I can’t remember if the apartment is clean. I should have made him wait in the hall. Thirdly, the idea of confronting Daniel is making me feel physically ill. I had to take off my hoodie because I was cold sweating so much.
Maybe Daniel flaked, and I won’t have to deal with him? Honestly, it’s not impossible, considering our past.
Instead, when I open the door, toting my carry-on suitcase behind me, I see beautiful Daniel waiting. He’s sitting at my tiny kitchen table, scribbling on some printed pages of what is likely a rough draft for our piece. He’s wearing a soft gray Stanford Track and Field sweatshirt that I used to borrow all the time when we went out. Black framed glasses. Sneakers neatly lined up by the door. Socked feet crossed at the ankles as he works out a new idea.
And that’s not all.
There are dozens of my favorite snacks on the table next to him. Three different variations of Twizzlers, including some blue-colored ones that have to be a special edition. My favorite kettle-cooked potato chips.A fruit tray, packed with strawberries, blueberries, and pineapple. A six-pack of Watermelon-flavored Propel.
My gaze travels just past him and the kitchen, into the living room. The lighting is soft, and it’s because he strung up some tiny paper lantern string lights in my favorite shade of pink. There are a couple of my blankets on the floor and a crazy number of pillows. Some mine, some he must have brought up in what—a garbage bag?
I must make some sort of noise, some precursor to surprised crying probably, and he turns to look at me. It’s a strange moment. Like we’re suspended in time, crystalline versions of each other. I wish this was our true reality. Working together. Setting up surprises for each other when we come home from a hard day at work.
But instead, I just feel confused.
Daniel stands up from his chair but doesn’t approach me. I softly close the door behind me, my mouth still gaping. “Did—did you do all this? Why?”
He looks shy and a little guilty. He rubs the back of his neck. “I know these last two games haven’t been going your way, and all of this is so overwhelming, and I just thought…” he trails off, as though gathering his thoughts or his courage, “I just thought maybe you needed some comfort. Comfort food.” He gestures to the table. “And a comfortable place to sleep. Maybe not for the whole night, considering we’re no longer spry twenty-one-year-olds, but I remember the time we built a pillow fort senior year, and you said it was the best night’s sleep you’d ever had.”
My mouth clicks shut. He’s right, of course. One night, driven to insanity by midterms and extra-long conditioning, we built a pillow fort in Daniel’s apartment and watched old movies. We fooled around, but only a little, and then we slept nestled in the fuzzy blankets, pillows, and each other. It certainly felt like the best night of sleep I’d had when I woke up the next morning.
I breathe through my nose, so I don’t cry. “It’s amazing, Daniel.” The emotion is still thick in my voice. “I love it.”
This is the Daniel who just wanted to help his friend. Or is hiding his feelings because he thinks that’s what I want. Either way, it’s incredible. He had no expectations for tonight except for some collaborative editing. He did this for me. Because he thought I needed it.
He cleanly sidesteps my emotions. He smiles and lifts up his pile of papers. “I have a few pages of my narration for the piece here. I thought maybe I could read it to you, see if it needs anything?”
There’s a little shimmer of nerves in his voice, and I realize he really wants me to like it. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to smile genuinely. “Sure. Go ahead and get started while I put my suitcase away.”
We never get closer than a few feet. I try not to look longingly at him as I pass by the table and head into my bedroom, suitcase dragging behind. Daniel sits down and clears his throat. “Good evening, world, this is Daniel Chan and tonight’s episode ofOur World Through Sports.”
His voice has smoothed, the vowels rounded, each word unfettered and practiced. It sounds like my TV is on. I hide a smile as I quickly unpack my clothes. “Sounds great so far!” I tease, shouting at him.
“Focus,” he admonishes, trying to regain his composure. “Tonight’s episode focuses on the WNBA and a recent team’s struggle for composure as they pursue their championship dream.” Struggle for composure is a very poetic way of describing our last couple of weeks, and my smile stays firmly in place. I unravel my phone charger and plug it in next to my bedside table. Daniel continues, voice raised a little so I can hear him. “The St. Louis Arrows seem like a team with an electric presence. Unstoppable momentum. Young, exciting players. Veteran leadership and coaching. In terms of sports, this is a team reaching for the top with every resource they need to get there.” More pretty words, but they do make my heart thump a little. Sports need inspiration. Motivation. Drive. All of those things keep the machine moving and hearing Daniel ignites all the live wires in my body. I zip my suitcase closed, almost finished.
“At the heart of the team are two of the best players in the league: Jadea Jones and Annie Larger. Best friends since childhood, Jones and Larger challenge every misogynistic remark they can. Jones can dunk in spectacular fashion. She and Larger frequently streak down the floor entirely in sync. They want Arch Arena to be swelling with roars, for the team to be talked abouton social media or ESPN. They want every opportunity women’s sports are frequently denied.”
I abandon the suitcase, mesmerized by Daniel’s voice. I walk slowly out of my bedroom, hovering in the doorway to listen. Daniel hasn’t noticed me yet.
“Many of you may know from social media that Annie Larger and I have a relationship off the court. I won’t add anything personal to this piece, but I hope you’ll indulge me with one little anecdote.” I freeze in place, shocked that he’s including anything specific about me in the piece. “My junior year at Stanford, Annie’s junior year as well, I was tasked with writing an op-ed about the most exciting sport on campus. I wanted to write about track and field, for obvious reasons, but a few classmates told me it would be crazy not to write about the women’s basketball team, which was about to head into March Madness. I went to see them play, hearing a lot about Jadea Jones before I even got there. To my surprise, Jadea was on the bench with an injury.” I’ve already heard him tell this story, but I’m still leaning towards him, drawn into the magic of the memory. “It was Annie who was leading the team. Who scored bucket after bucket, like she had wings on her shoes. She scored the last basket of the game, and the stadium was on fire. Her teammates dog piled on top of her. Jadea was crying softly on the bench, watching it all unfold.” He pauses, still looking doggedly at the paper in his hands. “It was the first time I realized that I loved not only track and field, but sports in general. It was a life-changing moment. Lightning in a bottle. When I talk about the St.Louis Arrows, I’m talking with that feeling still sizzling in my veins. That’s the feeling I hope this piece gives to you.”
He finishes there, finally looking up at me. I’m still mute, standing a few paces away. “What do you think?” he asks as if he doesn’t already know.
“You’re going to share that story?” I ask hoarsely. I tuck a few loose hairs behind my ear, trying not to fidget. “About us? Stanford, I mean? All of it?” I don’t even know what I’m asking.
Daniel shifts in the chair. “I thought the piece could use a personal angle.”
It’s a laughable response, purely polite and political. I almostdolaugh. Instead, we just stare at each other. I’m gathering the courage to say more when he stands up abruptly from his chair. It scrapes against the hardwood floor. “I’ll leave you to rest up.” He smiles that same polite smile, and I want to scream.
“You’re leaving?” There’s something rising in my voice—anger or disbelief or humor again, humor at this whole voiceless pattern of behavior.
“Well,” Daniel keeps that smile on his face, “I probably should go, keep working on the piece, and you have practice tomorrow—”
I practically growl my response. “Daniel!” His eyes widen, and the smile drops. “You’re driving me crazy!”
