Lap twenty. “This world is made up of deceivers and believers. Guess which one you are.”
I grin. “A fucking believer,” I pant out. “I believe in this team. I believe in us. And I?—”
“Don’t fucking say it.”
Lap thirty. “You can forgive yourself for thinking you love her and that we were friends. Everything changed the moment you lied to us both. There is no coming back from that.”
“I once believed that, too, but I’m not that guy anymore. Time is all I had, and now that I’m back, I’m not wasting a second by staying away just to please you.”
He jumps in front of me and jogs backward. The intimidating glare in his eyes would have once silenced me.
“You two on the court.” Byron turns on Coach’s command. “Join in the game. BJ, you take the ball. Byron is your opponent.”
Byron grins as though he has the upper hand. “Let’s fucking do this.”
I make my move on him to drive to the basket, but he deliberately trips me.
“Whoa,” Simpson says and offers me a hand.
I spring to my feet. “I’m all good.” I walk up to Byron and lean in close enough for him to hear. “You wanna hurt me? Then you hurt the teamandyourself. I’myourbest ticket to finals. Remember that, fucker.” He growls out something under his breath. “I’m the only person who makes you look good on the court.”
“I don’t need you. I’ve been doing fine for years.” He squats low in a defensive stance and lays a hand on my hip, ready to stop me.
I leap into a shot and make it over his head, giving him a satisfied smirk. “Yeah? But how far has it gotten you?”
“You better fucking close that trap of yours.”
I grin at myself. “Offer still stands.”
For the next half hour, Byron pushes, shoves, and runs me into the ground. I do the same to him. While much of it stems from anger and frustration rolled into one, the roughhandling is ideal to elevate us to the next level and prepare us for the pressure of finals. So rather than complain, I count down the minutes until I’m submerged in an ice bath.
At least it has stopped me thinking about Charlotte.
For the next week,I asked my chef to serve up two plates at dinner. Every night, I take a photograph and send it to Charlotte with no message attached. The image tells its own story—dinner with me.
Tonight, I receive a reply.
I’m not your fucking dietician. I don’t need to see your food.
At first, I laugh. I need another plan, so after contemplating ideas she can’t destroy, I message Jobe as he has believed in us from the start.
Hey, Jobe. Two years ago in New York, you told me that when you find that special person in your life, you move heaven and earth and fix whatever damage I have done. Enough time has passed, and now I need your help.
I get a reply immediately.
Sorry, BJ. I’m in London on business. If you don’t want to wait another week, try contacting Franklin. If I were you, I wouldn’t wait.
What does he know?
Christ, Franklin is next level.What the fuck do I say?He’s the most time-poor person I know, and he’ll get angry withme asking for ideas, but no one knows Charlotte better than her brothers.
Hi, Franklin. I apologize for the late notice, but is it possible to get a table booking at Bloom in the next week?
Franklin’s exquisite restaurant is one of the most sought-after in LA, and I already know the answer.
My phone buzzes.
Franklin is calling…
