Page 52 of A Shot at Love
What’s the right call?
Iwantto stay here. To curl up and go to bed early. To woodenly play solitaire. To hide in books and the bad soap operas that are on early in the afternoon.
I also want to go back. To apologize to Daniel and tell him I miss him. To clear the air with Jadea who sided with me even when she knew I had lied to her about Daniel. To play with my girls and stomp on the New York Liberty, win our first-round game and keep our campaign for a championship going.
If only there was an easy answer. Do I hurt them if I play? Will the crowd become distracting if I’m there? Will hurt feelings boil over? Is there any way to outsmart Trenton? Do I hurt them if I stay here?
I don’t know the right answer, but something propels me to my feet. I grab my keys, phone, and wallet, more out of habit than anything. I’m wearing a stained Stanford sweatshirt that used to be Jadea’s, rainbow tie-dye running shorts, and my sneakers. I head automatically to my car and just start driving.
I head further away from St. Louis and the motel, taking one of the first exits I see. I should be reading the street signs, but I figure if I get too desperate, I can always turn on my phone just for the GPS. I soon realize I’m entering suburbia. It must be one of the suburbs about an hour or so outside of St. Louis. The houses are nice, mid-sized and cookie cutter. I soon pass by a high school: Central High School with the damning colors of scarlet and white. They follow me everywhere.
Outside of the school is a football field, baseball field, tennis courts, and, to my surprise, outdoor basketball courts. It’s a week or two before school officially starts and very early for any high school basketball team to be worrying about their seasons. But I’m surprised to seeone girl standing on one of the courts, shooting. She looks young, maybe a freshman or sophomore.
I pull over into the school’s nearly empty parking lot. I watch her raptly. She reminds me of Jadea a little bit, flying as she hurtles towards the basket, braids whipping around her in a halo. She runs a few shooting drills but gets stuck on her three-point shot.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m out of the car. I walk across the grass until I’m standing on the edge of the blacktop. “I had trouble with that shot, too,” I say evenly, surprising the girl enough that she almost drops the ball. She wheels around to face me, knees slightly bent as though on defense. “I still do, to be honest.”
I’m so used to the anonymity of being a female athlete that I’m surprised when she says, “Annie Larger?” She sounds dubious, as though it would be impossible for me to be here.
I suppose it is almost impossible; I should have been playing in the loss today. “How many threes do you take a day?” I ask conversationally. I join her on the court, staring up at the slightly tattered hoop.
The girl shrugs. “Not that many. I hate missing.”
Not only does she play like Jadea, she sounds like her, too. I have to smile then. “Everyone hates missing, at least a little bit. But my three didn’t even become passable until I made at least a hundred of them a day.”
The girl rolls her eyes like I’m a well-meaning, bothersome coach. “I know, I know.” She dribbles the ball a bit, narrowing her eyes at me. “Aren’t you going out with Daniel Chan?”
I have to bark a laugh at the non-basketball related question. Our fake relationship really was the talk of the town. “I was, I guess. It’s hard to explain.”
She takes a few steps back and throws up a three-pointer. It clangs off the rim. I rebound it for her, passing it back so she can try again from the same spot. She misses again and then says, “What about the team? Why didn’t you show up to your games? Isthathard to explain?” She sounds a little sharper, pushy. I wonder if she’s a fan and heard that I cheated to get on the team. I wonder if she’s disappointed I didn’t play in our last two games of the season.
She rolls up the sleeves on her gray Central High School hoodie and throws up another three. This one is better, her form falling closer to in rhythm, and the ball just barely rims out of the hoop. I keep my gaze on the hoop and rebounding the ball. Finally, I say to her, “You saw that, huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “If you have any interest in basketball at all, you’ve seen the video about you. They’ve talked about it every morning this week onThe Jump,and my favorite sports podcaster is doing a whole week of content on it.”
I sigh. “It’s complicated.”
The girl dribbles again and shoots another three. Swish. I smile a little and see one pulling at her lips, too. “It doesn’t seem that complicated to me,” she says, taking another pass from me. “There are only two things you need to think about.”
Jadea’s confidence, too.
“And what’s that?” I humor her. It’s nice to talk to someone impartial, even if she is just a kid.
“One: Did you cheat? Did you do what your brother said you did?”
I probably shouldn’t answer a stranger so honestly, but I also don’t feel the impulse to lie or duck the question. I keep my eyes on the hoop. “I didn’t ask my father for anything. I didn’t even know who he was.” She gives me a look like,see. I continue, undeterred, “But I might have unknowingly benefited from bad things my father did. He manipulated the draft for me, I just didn’t know he was doing it.”
I expect her to nod thoughtfully, act like this really is complicated, but she just shrugs and says, “Details.” Another shot, another swish.
I watch her make two more before I ask, “And what’s the other thing? The second thing?”
I pass the ball back to her, and she actually pauses, turns to me fully. “Do you love the game?” Before I can answer, she says, “I’ll play as long as anyone will let me, and I’m not nearly as good as you are. I probably never will be. So, are you going to quit what you love, or did you never love it in the first place?”
I grimace, wondering if it really is that simple. “How old are you? Who are you?” I try to make it a joke, but we look at each other seriously.
“Jordan Davis. I’m a junior at Central High School and the backup small forward for our girls’ basketball team.” She rattles it off like I’m a college scout.
I smile at her. “I think you’re going places, Jordan Davis.”
