And I suppose, for him, it does.
We begin walking along the shoreline, his stride longer than mine, close enough to the water that occasionally a wave reaches out to kiss our feet. The sand is cool and damp, compacted enough to easily walk on. I can’t help but notice how Dom walks slightly between me and the ocean, as if unconsciously protecting me from the waves.
“So, I have a question,” I say after we’ve walked a few minutes in comfortable silence.
“Shoot.”
“Did you always know you wanted to play basketball professionally?”
He nods. “For as long as I can remember.”
“So, does that mean basketball was basically your whole life growing up?”
“Pretty much,” he explains, falling into step beside me. “It was the first thing I was evergoodat.”
I glance at him.
“I was tall early,” he continues, gaze drifting toward the water. “Awkward. Quiet. Didn’t really fit anywhere. But when I picked up a ball, things made sense. People paid attention—not to how tall I was, or how quiet—but to what I coulddo.”
“But did you ever just want to be a kid?” I ask gently. “Have fun?”
“Basketball was fun for me,” he says. “It still is.” A small smile tugs at his mouth. “It gave me structure. Direction. Something I could build toward.” He pauses. “My brother used to give me a hard time about it. He’d come back from weekend trips with friends all sunburned and full of stories, and I’d be in the driveway, still shooting hoops.”
We walk a bit further, the waves filling the quiet. I’m struck by how different our childhoods must have been. While I was dabbling in a dozen different hobbies, never committing to any, Dom was singularly focused on one thing and holding on.
“Was it worth it?” I ask softly.
Dom takes his time answering, his eyes on the horizon. “Yes,” he finally says. “It got me here.” Then, quieter: “But it did cost me some normal life stuff.” He glances at me, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Like midnight beach walks.”
His hand brushes against mine, sending a tingle up my arm. I want to take it, to intertwine our fingers like at the party, but something about this moment feels too fragile for such a deliberate move.
“Well,” I say, bumping my elbow gently against his arm, “you’re having one now.”
He looks down at me with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I am. Better late than never.”
We continue walking, our steps synchronizing. The waves create a rhythm that our conversation falls into—questions and answers flowing like the tide.
“What about you?” Dom asks. “Did you always know you wanted to be an entrepreneur?”
“No way.” I laugh, the sound carrying out over the water. “I wanted to be a veterinarian until I realized how much science that required. Then I wanted to be a fashion designer until I discovered my complete lack of sewing skills. Then a chef, a photographer, a journalist…” I trail off, embarrassed by my lack of direction.
“So, you tried everything,” Dom observes, no judgment in his voice.
“I dabbled,” I admit. “My sister calls it my ‘sampler platter approach to life.’ Try a little bit of everything, commit to nothing.”
“Until the skincare line?”
“Yeah. Glow Girl was my firstrealcommitment. And everyone knows how that turned out. I’m a hot mess.”
“You’re trying to find yourself, not pretend to be someone you’re not. There’s honesty in that struggle.”
I let out a soft breath. No one’s ever framed it that way before. Like my uncertainty isn’t a flaw.
“The luxury athlete housing idea, though,” he continues, “that’s something special. It solves a real problem. It comes from a genuine place.”
“It’s still just an idea,” I remind him.
“Every successful business starts as ‘just an idea,’” he counters. “Including your dad’s tech company.”
