Outside, the night air is cool, the ocean just loud enough to hear from the street.
“Ready for the game Saturday?” I ask.
He stops short of his red sports car. “Yeah, are you?”
I hesitate, but then nod. “I think so.”
Marcus puts his hand on his car door, then glances back at me like he’s debating whether to say something.
“You hear the Marbury stuff?”
“No,” I say, my brow furrowing.
Marcus shrugs. “Just chatter. Seattle’s sniffing around, or so I heard.”
“He’s getting moved?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He shakes his head. “You know how it goes. Half of it’s smoke, half of it’s front office posturing. Guys hear their names and start reading into everything.”
I nod slowly.
Marcus opens his car door, then pauses again. “Point is, nothing’s ever locked in. Team’s always thinking two steps ahead.”
“Oh…” is all I can manage.
He gives me a lazy salute as he gets in. “See you at shootaround, Neelson.”
Two hours later, long showered and restless, I reach for my phone on the coffee table. I scroll through my contacts to my agent, Edward, and hit the call button.
He picks up on the third ring. “Dom! How’s the City of Angels treating you? You finally settling in or still missing the Gulf?”
“Working on it,” I say. Then, after a beat, “Just wanted to check-in to see if there’s anything I should be aware of league-wise?”
“Nothing unusual,” he says. “Early season noise. Same as always. Why? Should I be pushing for a shop? Are you still not jiving with the team?”
“I’m fitting in,” I say, even as I’m not entirely sure it’s true. “But Marcus mentioned Seattle. Something about Marbury being on the move?”
A heavy sigh sounds through the receiver. “It’s that time of year. Front offices talk. Everyone’s feeling the heat. But you know how it is. League’s a business. Stay sharp, keep doing your thing—unless you want me to make it a point to put feelers out. Your contract could be hard to get around, but Texas has been paying attention.”
I hesitate, thinking of playing for the team I always dreamed of being a part of growing up. The one I watched with my family, the one I imagined myself in long before the draft ever made it a real possibility. Of how close I could be to home again—close enough to stop feeling like a visitor in my own life.
“Yeah… that could be cool.”
But something about it feels wrong.
Why?
“Just keep your head where you are and we’ll talk when there’s something real,” he says, sounding almost distracted. “I’ll see you at the game, man.”
“See ya.” I hang up and stare out the window, the city lights glowing. I picture Texas—wide roads, familiar faces, a version of myself that already knows how to exist there.
It would be easier.
So why does it feel like I’d be leaving something unfinished?
I’m still standing at the window when the knock comes, three quick taps, followed by a familiar scratching sound and a muffled “Cocoa, stop that.”
Something in my chest loosens as I approach the door and pull it open to find Nicole. “I made more cookies,” she says with a smallsmile, holding up the container. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She’s in sweatpants and an oversized UCLA hoodie.
