My sister texted me this morning:
Lindy: Don’t be weird on TV.
Lindy: Jk you’re always weird.
Lindy: I love you. Go get everything.
She couldn’t be here. Money, travel, work, life. My parents didn’t push it. My mom mentioned the optics of “too many people” on the broadcast couch. Translation: She wanted two clean parental silhouettes next to me, nothing messy, no surprises.
No Rafe.
My fingers itch toward my pocket again, but I hold still.
The first team is on the clock now. They show a graphic of their needs, their record, the three names they’re “most likely” to choose.
I’m one of them.
My name looks strange up there, sandwiched between two other guys I’ve played against. I know their games, their strengths, the scouting reports. I know I could fit there. I also know it’s across the country. If they call me, I’ll go. I’ll smile. I’ll shake the commissioner’s hand. I’ll do my job.
But my chest squeezes at the thought of it.
On-court, I can lock down an assignment and block out everything else. Off-court, I’ve never been good at pretending my choices aren’t calculated around the people I let myself care about.
Rafe once told me that was the difference between us. “You calculate,” he’d said, leaning back against his headboard, picking absently at his strings. “I just jump.”
“I jumped into a wedding,” I’d said.
He’d smiled, slow and sure. “Best jump you ever made.”
The crowd noise swells. My agent, Eric, leans slightly toward me.
“Remember,” he says, low, so only I hear, “whatever happens, you react naturally. Don’t force it. Teams watch this stuff. They want to see composure.”
Composure is the one thing I know I have.
The clock hits zero for the first pick. The commissioner walks back to the podium with a card in his hand. The arena holds its breath.
“With the first pick in the draft,” he booms, “the Atlanta Pilots select…”
Not me.
The camera flashes to another table. A player I’ve known since AAU stands up, face breaking into disbelief and joy. His family swarms him. There are tears. There’s a lot of noise. He puts on a blue-and-silver cap.
I clap. I mean it. He’s worked for it. We all have.
My parents clap too. My mother’s smile stays fixed. My father nods once, like he’s evaluating a stock he didn’t buy.
My phone buzzes again.
Rafe: Not first pick? Their loss.
Rafe: Still breathing?
I type back under the table.
Me: Yeah. Congrats to J. He deserves it.
Rafe: So do you. Top three is still top three.
