Page 51 of A Shot at Love
I toss and turn fitfully. And even when I do sleep, I don’t feel rested. Like my body knows my brain is still awake.
Hating me. Hating Daniel and Jadea for trying to run my life. Hating Trenton. Hating Jack.
I’ve never been so angry.
I stew in the dark.
*
My instant oatmeal rotates in the microwave, something they had in the vending machine a few doors down from my room. I watch it disinterestedly, like I’ve done everything today. Our game against Seattle starts in ten minutes.
And I’m not there.
My phone has been off all day, but I know what I would see if it were on. Missed calls from Jadea, Coach Rembert, Jermaine. Maybe my mom. That would be the group begging me not to quit. To not give up. Jadea might even give me some bullshit speech about how badass I am if I just truly believe in myself.
And then, on the flip side, there would be hundreds of tweets mentioning what a monster I am. Analyzing the scandal. Monitoring the investigation. Currently, I can still play. It isn’t until the investigation is complete that the WNBA would hand out the punishment. But to play now, with Trenton watching and my teammates hating me seems impossible. People believe I’m a cheater. How to convince them that I’m not? It appears that Jack did manipulate things in my favor, and the only thing I had going for me was that I never knew. Now it looks like I not only knew about it, Iaskedfor it.
My oatmeal tastes terrible, like ash in my mouth. It’s difficult to tell if that’s because of its low quality or because of me. As the clock ticks closer and closer to tip-off, I itch to turn on the game. I’ve never seen us play on TV before. I think we’re on a local channel, like The U or something, so who knows if I’d even be able to find it.
Instead, I watch the clock change numbers. I play solitaire with the deck of cards Wendy provided for me. I try to read the new Talia Hibbert book I bought on my Kindle. Nothing is working; nothing is distracting me. My skin is crawling, itching, buzzing.
I dig through my suitcase until I find a pair of leggings, a sports bra, my running shoes. And the neon pink tank top I wore when I went on the date with Daniel. There’s a flash in my brain, a memory of me encouraging Daniel to do what he needed, to take his time before he ran again. Why couldn’t he see that I just needed time? A break?
Why did I push him back so hard? Was I looking for any excuse not to trust him, to accuse him of hurting me like he did before?
I shove the neon tank top back down to the bottom of the suitcase and grab a more nondescript one. The run helps that itchy feeling go away, at least partially. It’s almost soothing to feel the repetitive nature of my footsteps, the pounding beat of SZA’s latest song in my ears. I run around the motel eight times. Nine times. Twelve times. I walk a few laps in between, but it feels too slow, like walking through syrup. I run again. It’s my fifteenth lap before I finally have the courage to go back into the room.
A sadder, lower song has come on in my earbuds. “Let Us Die” by King Princess. My hand finds the remote. I flip through the channels, looking for a familiar court decked in red and white. Jadea dunking and a solid lead on the scoreboard.
Instead, just as King Princess sings, “If the only way to love you is to let us die,” I see the game is almost over. I ran longer than I thought. The burning in my lungs and calves makes sense now.
The clock ticks down from twenty, and Taherah is just standing at the top of the key, dribbling it out until the end.
It’s because we lost. We lost by fifteen points.
The broadcast ends with an image of Jadea, hunched on the bench with a towel over her head. I slip off the edge of the bed, landing in a similar position. I press my palms into my eyes, trying to find clarity.
How do you know when you’re doing the right thing? Who am I really protecting, the team or myself?
*
The Indiana Fever and the St. Louis Arrows both have their final game on Sunday.
The Fever won theirs. We lost ours by six points.
We don’t get the number one seed.
I’m still in the motel, feeling disconnected from everything. It’s isolating at the motel. Most people are in and out, and no one bothers you. I wave to Wendy once a day, and that’s it. My phone is long neglected. My friends and family held at arm’s length. The only connection I have to the outside world is when I watch our games.
I convinced myself that the Seattle game was a fluke. Seattle is always good, and even if I was there, in my normal capacity, we still could have lost. Today, we played the Connecticut Sun, whose season has been incredibly up and down. We’ve already beaten themtwice this year. It should have been an easy win. Instead, we had sixteen turnovers and shot 33 percent from the field. It was ugly, and it was my fault.
If I was there, I could have helped.
If I truly loved the sport, I would be better at ignoring the noise. I would take it one step at a time. I wouldn’t be so hurt by Trenton’s betrayal. I wouldn’t curse Jack every breath I take. I would just play.
But I’m not strong enough.
After the buzzer sounds for the end of the game, I immediately turn the TV off. I cannot bear to see Jadea hurting. Olabisi furious. Everyone beat down. We lost our number one seed. We have to play in the one-and-done first round of the playoffs. The WNBA has sixteen teams, two conferences of eight. The top five teams make it in each conference. Last I checked, the NY Liberty were the five seed in the east. It’s a tougher match-up than you’d expect out of a five seed. The Liberty have all the talent in the world, but their superstar, Breanna Stewart, has been riddled with injuries all season. She’s still not back in playing shape. On the other hand, Sabrina Ionescu was league MVP two years ago, before Jadea, and she’s one of the best athletes I’ve ever seen.Jonquel Jones has great length and is great around the basket. They would likely have a higher seed without the injuries.
