My chest loosens. Just slightly. Enough for air to get in. Enough for me to breathe like the world isn’t about to tilt under my feet.
Me: You make it sound easy.
Rafe: It won’t be easy.
Rafe: It’ll be worth it.
I shut my eyes. The noise of the draft drops away for a moment. It’s just him. His words. His certainty. His love tucked inside every message he pretends is casual but never really is.
I breathe out.
Me: Okay.
A reply arrives instantly, like he’d been waiting for that word.
Rafe: You’re okay. We’re okay. Now go get your name called.
Rafe: But if there’s any justice in the universe, it’ll be LA. Selfishly, I like you in my bed, Marshall.
Heat creeps up my neck. I lock the phone and slide it back into my pocket before my ears go red enough for the cameras to pick it up.
My mother leans slightly toward me. “Everything all right?”
“Fine,” I say. “Just a message from Lawrence.” The governor’s son from back home is my permanent decoy. He actually texted earlier to wish me luck, so it’s not technically a lie.
“Hmm,” she says. “I’m not sure you should be spending so much time connecting with him. He’s not very grounded at the moment. He’s causing all manner of issues back home.”
I don’t answer. Grounded, in her vocabulary, means straight, well-connected, and willing to smile at the right fundraisers.
My father finally closes the program, turning toward me. “I still think you should have finished your degree properly before doing this.”
“We’ve talked about this,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I did finish.”
“You finished early,” he corrects. “You rushed.”
“I took overloads every semester,” I say. “I maintained my GPA. I met with advisors. You saw the emails.” Something I hadn’t discussed with either of them at the time.
He presses his lips together. “Playing professional basketball instead of pursuing a secure position at the firm is not?—”
“Not what you wanted.” I finish for him, calm, because we’ve had this conversation so many times I can say his lines along with mine. “I know.”
He looks at me, really looks. There’s frustration there, and fear, and something else I’ve never been able to name. “Oliver, you could have both.”
No,I think,I couldn’t.Not with the way his “both” works. Not with the amount of control he requires.
Out loud, I say nothing. I just meet his eyes, then look back toward the stage.
The commissioner comes out to polite applause. The music swells. Graphics flash across the big screens. The logos of the teams with the worst records fill the arena.
The LA Monarchs crest appears in the mix—a stylized crown over a basketball. Gold and black. The city’s other team. The one that’s been rebuilding for years but hasn’t quite broken through.
They’ve got the third pick this year.
I haven’t allowed myself to hope too hard.
I do now.
The commissioner starts his opening remarks. I’ve heard it all on television before, every year I watched this as a kid inMadison, every year I sat on that ugly brown couch with Lindy and pretended I didn’t want this with a bone-deep ache.
