“Everything good?” Cyrus asks.
“Yeah.” I smile. “Everything’s good.”
And for the first time, when it comes to anything pertaining to my father, I mean it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JORDAN
“Fine. If you’ve got to get technical. I love you. Happy?”
—Sarafina Rose, Ravaged Lands
“Good game, Jordan!” Linc slaps me on the shoulder. “It’s so fucking good to have you back!” he yells, even though I’m standing right here in front of him.
I grin, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins, even though our game against the Pistons ended thirty minutes ago. Giving him a one-arm hug, I pound him on the chest, then release him. Around us, the rest of the team shouts back and forth, all in various states of undress, some having hit the shower. There’s a frenetic energy in the locker room that’s particular to winning. Especially when you’re home. Tonight there will be parties, drinking, and fucking. Lots of fucking.
“Twenty-four points and ten rebounds. You’re such an underachiever,” Daniel says, clapping me on the shoulder.
I grin at him, relief a cool balm spreading through my chest. It’s been a little over a week since our confrontation about Miriam. Whenhe left that library, I didn’t know if we would be on speaking terms again, much less be cool. I don’t know if we’re as tight as we used to be, but in the last few days, since we’ve been playing again, he hasn’t been as cold. And I have been hopeful.
Tonight, I have even more hope.
I shrug. “I need to have goals.” After stripping off my jersey, I tip my chin up. “Thanks, man.”
“You’re welcome. Now bring that same energy tomorrow night.”
Laughing, I bump his fist. “Yeah, bruh.”
He walks off, and a peace soothes one of the raw places in my heart. One of them. The other one? Well, it’s going to take more than a fist bump and team bonding. I head to the showers, the high from the win fading, replaced by the weight I’ve carried around for days.
I have the press conference and then home. Finally. I’m tired. And lonely.
A part of me had hoped, maybe even prayed a little, that Miriam would reach out to me. Call. Text. Fucking skywrite. But nothing. And with each day that’s passed, I’ve lost more of my hope that she’ll forgive me.
That she’ll love me.
I can’t make her fall in love with me.
And fuck. I’ve become a country song.
Standing under the shower’s stream, I bow my head and wash away the sweat and dirt of the game. Only a little while longer.
An hour later, seated behind the table and microphones on the podium, I feel like that “little while” is eternal.
A reporter gives his name and identifies his station. “Jordan, how’s your groin pull? Are you back to full health?”
It’s only the fifty-first time it’s been thrown at me since my return. Sometimes, I wish they’d come up with more original questions. Or listen to the answer I gave the last guy. But this is the job.
Forcing a smile that I hope appears real, I give my patented reply, “Thanks to the team’s great physical therapists, I’m at one hundred percent.”
The next question is for Daniel, and I relax but only slightly. And just for the moment. While my name and face end up on ESPN, blogs, and gossip sites often, this part of the job is my least favorite. One slipup, one mistake, and suddenly you’ve insulted another player’s game or wound up married to the Loch Ness Monster’s niece. Shit can get unpredictable quick if you go off script.
Another question comes at me after a reporter introduces herself and her paper. “Jordan, that drive in the last twenty seconds of the fourth quarter, you got the rebound and scored the layup, cinching the five-point lead to win the game. What were you thinking?”
I mentally sigh, hating these “What were you thinking?” questions. Because “That I wanted to win the fucking game” is never the right answer. I checked with Coach. He said it wasn’t.
“Mainly that if I miss this layup, Coach is going to run me in practice, and I’m never going to hear the end of it,” I joke. The room fills with laughter. I wait until it dies down a little before adding, “You can’t give the Pistons a chance to come back. Twenty seconds or two. If you can take the shot, you take the shot and put points on the board. We don’t stop playing until the game is over.”
