Page 19 of A Shot at Love
Logically, I know itisgreat for selling tickets. The WNBA uses Jadea on every branding item they can because she’s the biggest star this league has. And a lot of that star power does come from her dunks. Jadea takes a deep breath. “I told him no. I would happily do videosfor our social media and any other promotional marketing, but it seemed desperate and exhausting to do it all the time. They would never ask Steph Curry to put on a three-point shooting clinic before every game to sell tickets. Just seeing him play would be enough.”
My heart is sinking, heavy as a stone. “But he made you do it?” I can’t imagine someone making Jadea do anything.
She shrugs. “He told me that the team needed me and that more tickets meant good things for the WNBA. Technically, he’s not wrong, but where do we draw the line? Why can’t we just be respected for being the great athletes we are?” She clenches her fists. “I want this league to be the best it can be, so I do it. I convince myself it’s fun and reallyit is.But it also makes me feel sort of ashamed. Like I’m a clown just begging for a scrap of the audience’s attention.” She shakes her head. “We shouldn’t have to do that.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I let her words course through me and picturing Trenton’s smug face and my silence in his office only makes me angrier. I stand up and begin to pace, trying to release some of the tension flowing through me. “That is bullshit, Jadea!” My words are coming out fast and hot. “All of this is bullshit! NDAs and Twitter trolls and Trenton Smith with his plastic fucking smile! He doesn’t even care about women’s sports. He’s just trying to squeeze the most money out of the team with the least amount of effort.”
Jadea stands up, putting her hands up in a placating gesture. “None of this is new, Annie. Trenton just put a face to it.”
She’s right, but I don’t slow down. “Let’s be honest, Jadea, this is our dream, the fantasy we’ve had since we were kids, and it’s magical. Every day feels like walking on fucking clouds!” I bark a bitter laugh. “But it’s also complicated. You become resigned to the lack of equality. We’re both luckyandunlucky. Lucky I can play and do what I love, unlucky that many men in the world refuse to even acknowledge us. There’s no winning this!”
Daniel has stopped his spiel, probably because my insane ranting is bleeding into whatever he’s saying. I’m practically panting with anger, and I’m sure my skin is a splotchy, raving red. Before I know what I’m doing, I march over to Daniel and his camera crew. “Are you looking for interviews?” I demand, focusing on Daniel.
He doesn’t hesitate, his dark gaze unwavering. “Always.” He motions at me to indicate that I have the floor.
A production assistant hurriedly hands me a mic. “Hello, America, this is Annie Larger.” For a moment, all my angry adrenaline feels on the verge of crashing. This isn’t live, but I’m still on camera, holding a mic like an avenging sword. I barrel ahead, for once letting those emotions spill out. “I would like to conduct a little experiment if our host is up for it?”
Daniel responds as any consummate professional host would respond to a crazy woman. A crazy woman who was once his girlfriend. “Of course.”
I smile at him and then the camera, but it feels more like baring my teeth. “Would you mind getting out your phone and opening Instagram? You can all do it too!” I gesture to the crew behind the camera, including a displeased looking Iris Langley.
They all willingly pull out their smartphones and open the app. “Now, I assume you all follow ESPN?” Daniel nods, and so do some of his crew members. “If you could go onto their Instagram and find a video clip or post about the WNBA? Maybe the last one they posted?”
Daniel is the first to find one. I wonder if he knows where I’m going with this. Is he remembering those days we lay in bed, and I flipped through the channels trying to find a WNBA game and couldn’t? Is he remembering squeezing my hand and buying some weird streaming service so we could watch the games together? I shake the memory off. “Here’s one.” He shows me the video on his phone. “It’s a New York Liberty clip. A defensive trap that stops the other team from tying the score. The Liberty win at the very last second.” He watches the clip for a second time, analyzing the motions. “It’s an amazing read of their opponents’ plan with a Breanna Stewart block to end.” There is a warm dose of admiration in his tone.
I hear Iris muttering something about putting the clip in during post so people can see it on TV. “Awesome.” I’m feeling eerily calm now. “Can you clickon the comments for the video and read the first few? And please ignore the bots.” A wry smile twists on my face.
I point the mic towards Daniel, like every reporter has always done to me. I can tell Daniel is uncomfortable with the comments he reads when he hesitates and clears his throat. “The first one reads: ‘Is this supposed to make me want to watch the WNBA?’” Angry tears begin to glimmer in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Crying and yelling never make for a logical experiment. Daniel continues, keeping his voice even. “The next one says: ‘I’ve seen middle schoolers play better.” My fingers tighten on the mic, but I don’t waver. Daniel’s eyes are glued to his phone. “This one says: ‘Go back to the kitchen.’” When he looks at me then, I swear I see my own anger reflected in his own eyes. “That’s horrifying,” he finally says, his cheerful disposition effectively smothered.
I take back the mic. “The WNBA has lots of amazing fans. If you check the WNBA Instagram or even ESPNW, you will see evidence of those wonderful people. However, when mainstream media posts anything about women’s sports, especially team sports, the post receives dozens of hateful comments. When people ask me how I feel about playing in the WNBA, I want to say it’s a dream come true. Because it is.” I look squarely at the camera, my voice quivering. “I swear, itis. But really, it’s way more complicated than that. Sometimes it feels like playing in a vacuum, like screaming into the void. They’re analyzing the NBA draft weeks before it happenson SportsCenter and not even mentioning what’s happening in the WNBA during ouractual season.” I swear Iris Langley looks irritated in a different way now. Like she’s remembering some suit at HBO, wondering how a woman could lead a show about sports. Like maybe, she understands every flame licking my ribcage right now. I take a deep breath and soften my tone. “There have been some amazing strides in women’s college sports recently, but professionally, things are still moving so slowly. Caitlin Clark’s rookie salary is $76,000. Fellow number one pick and generational player, Victor Wembanyama’s is $12.2million. She’s making less than one percent of his salary.” I let that sink in before I continue. “And while some of you may be hearing about my biological father and his alleged misconduct and wanting to turn away from us, please don’t. Whatever happens to me, I love this league. Stop comparing the NBA and WNBA like only one can exist. These women are worth it, I promise. Give them respect. Get them paid.” There’s an awkward pause. I try a tremulous smile. “Thank you.”
Satisfied, I hand the mic back to Daniel. He says a few things after I walk away, but my ears are ringing too much to hear him. I feel like I just played in a championship game, and my adrenaline finally crashed. How could I do that? It’s still a few weeks until Daniel’s piece airs, but this goes against Jermaine’s plan. No one will want to hear what a billionaire’s bastard child has to say about the gender pay gap. I also didn’t even call Jermaine about Trenton’s ridiculousNDA. My life is spinning out of control, and I’m only egging it on. I sidle up to Jadea, who has been watching the whole thing. “How did I do?” I ask nervously. “Did I say the right things?”
Jadea wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me off the court and towards our film room. Coach Rembert is probably wondering where the hell we are. “Annie, there’s not just one way to say something important. You were great.”
While her words reassure me, I do hear the tension underneath. It hasn’t solved any of our real problems. I still hastily signed Trenton Smith’s NDA without knowing his plans for me. Jadea is still being forced to put on a show by the very same half-brother.I’m still being questioned in the media. The league is still investigating Jack for misconduct, and I still haven’t spoken to him.
I’m still pretending not to care that Daniel ghosted me after I sat by his hospital bed for days and signed his cast with a heart.
When we sit down in the dark room, the projector screen already lit up with Indiana’s plays, I feel utterly defeated. There must be a right play, the perfect one that I’m just not seeing, but it continues to elude me.
I put my head down and listen to Coach Rembert and my teammates discuss tomorrow’s game. For once, I don’t find their analysis comforting.
How close am I to losing all of this?
9
We’re supposed to be boarding the bus to Indianapolis in twenty minutes, but I’m still on the court shooting. I’ve decided to practice my free throw, because out of all my shots, they feel the most rhythmic. My three-pointers are streaky, and my jumpers are rare. But at the line, I almost never miss.
Everyone else already boarded the bus, and most of the lights were turned off by the facility manager. It’s dim in here, with pockets of low lights reflecting off the court.
That’s where Daniel finds me.
I hear him walking across the courts, quiet and steady. I don’t turn to look at him; instead, I inhale and exhale when I see the ball swish through the hoop. My brain needed a vacation from Trenton, Jack, and all the men out there who are just like them.
He doesn’t say anything, hovering at the baseline. His face is half in the shadows, but I can see that he isn’t smiling. He rebounds a few balls for me, cleanly passing them back so I can shoot again.
Finally, when I’ve made eight shots in a row, I stop. Some of that adrenaline-fueled rage has settled, and basketball serotonin is surging through me instead. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning the ball over in my hands. “For blowing up in that interview.”
