“This time is different,” I swear, hoping I’m right.
“Emily and I need you, Nova.We can’t eat entire baguettes or take cute selfies ourselves.”
“You don’t.And maybe Clay doesn’t need me either, but I want to be there for him.The past couple of weeks have been amazing, but I want to be in Denver cheering the guys on.If you’re worried about childcare, I can get you an amazing babysitter, and?—”
“You don’t need to do that,” my sister interrupts, studying me.“Go be with Clay.Emily and I will eat all the baguettes ourselves.”
28
CLAY
“These fucking shoes.”Atlas snaps another pair of laces.“Defective pieces of shit.”
He hurls a shoe across the room, Rookie ducking in time to miss getting hit in the head.
Our big guy rarely loses his cool, but he’s not the only one spinning out in his own way.
Jay’s got headphones over his ears, running through what’s about to happen in his mind.
Even Miles is silent, facing the lockers as he pulls on his game jersey.
There’s no Kyle.He’s been avoiding here since his injury.
The mood in the locker room is heavy.
This is the moment we could lose everything.
I could lose everything.
Atlas snaps another pair of laces and winds up.
I lift a hand.“You hit my head, I will take yours off.”
Rookie snorts, and Atlas grunts at him.
I take a breath and think of therapy and things Nova and I talked about.What she said to me ahead of this game meant more than I could express.
I opened the journal she gave me and wrote in it for hours.
The things I want.
The ones I’m afraid of.
My gaze falls on Rookie’s backpack, a torn bag from high school he insists on carrying around even now.
“I get that this series isn’t what we wanted,” I say, and the guys look up.“But it’s a playoff series.Tell me every moment in your life, as a kid, you weren’t wishing for this.”I pace the room, rubbing my hands together.The tattoos on my skin twine into one another.
Jay tugs off his headphones, listening.
I pause in front of Miles.“You didn’t think it’d come easy, did you?”
“This supposed to be motivating?”Rookie demands, slumping back against his locker.
I go to him next, stopping between his spread feet.“Where would you rather be?I mean it.Tell me where you’d rather be.”
He closes his eyes.“I’d rather have won the championship.”
“I get that you’re tired.That you’ve already worked harder this year than you ever worked.It’s not over.”
