“They were thin and crispy! I just feel like if you‘re trying to woo me, you should know I love my cookies—”
“Soft and under-baked in the middle.” I finished for her.
“Exactly.”
“Any girls?” I instigated very obviously.
My sister stuttered, and I would bet her wheels were turning on how to try to divert my attention elsewhere. Her background revealed the front door opening, and my mom and Clay stepping through.
“Well, that’s my time to go.”
“Is that Nola?” I heard on the other side.
“Bye, Olly. Be good.” And then I hung up in the middle of Olive responding.
I didn’t know when I’d be ready to speak to Olivia. The thought of starting over was hard, and dragging my feet was only going to make this process worse.
But maybe, for once, I deserved to wallow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nola
“You’re smiling without your teeth too much.” Daya elbowed my side as we stepped out of the black SUV the Waves sent to our hotel to take us to the Palmoil Arena. She was a foot shorter, so her elbow landed right at my waist. Her middle part, low bun accentuated round features that didn’t screamdon’t fuck with me or my clients,but when paired with her deep crimson red lip, little did people know.
“It’s the best I can give you right now.” I said at normal pitch, thankful there were no overbearing paparazzi or eager sports fans trying to catch me off my game. It had been two months since my talk with Henry, and one month since the Violets officially announced my mom’s hiring. Since the announcement, there’d been a whirlwind of speculation and analysis on what that meant for the team—and also me—because no one knew about my upcoming deal.
Can the Violets survive a Young duo?
Nepotism at its finest: Young to head coach, Young to star again
Going back to my apartment felt like what I imagined coming home to the ex you still lived with felt like. Looking at the skyline made me nauseated, staring at my first championship ring made me woozy, but the strongest feeling I had was an overwhelming sense of dread. I was used to proving myself; fighting for the time to step out of my parent’s shadow and show the world I was my own person. Sure, opportunities were granted to me, but then I actually showed my skillset and IQ. Nepotism helped me get this far, but I’m still here because ofme.
And yet this was the first time something was ripped from mebecauseof my parents. The first thing that truly felt like mine—roots I wanted to plant and grow beneath the earth because of the work I did—taken from me.
The worst feeling of all of this was that I knew why. Logically, it made sense. I didn’t need to justify the decision made, because if I were Henry I might’ve done the same thing.
It sucked that the Young legacy with the Chicago Violets would come from Olivia, not me.
For a month now, I’d been staying with Daya even though all three of my parents, Rashida, Allison, and Evie kept trying to get me to pick up the phone. The only person I continued to answer was Olive, and if she wanted to be my family town crier then so be it.
“Alright,” Daya started, “I know this signing process has been unconventional—”
“A lot has been unconventional,” I interjected.
“But Miami won’t shut up about how excited they are to have you!”
“And just to confirm again…”
“Owners were absolutelynotinvolved in the negotiation process.” Daya nodded, knowing I wanted to avoid more family drama.
Like with most things in my life, I met Daya through basketball. Her older brother and I played for the same travel team organization, and her commentary on family bus rides had gotten many laughs out of me. She hated men, and I hated try-hards. One time I threw up on her, but she didn’t laugh at my pain—we were a match made in heaven. By the time we made it to college she was the only volleyball player living in our apartment. And we’d been a package deal ever since.
I was going from leaving a team that wouldn’t resign me because of my mom, to a team that my aunts co-owned. I would be the first to call this decision insane, but despite Miami’s constant humidity, when Daya approached me with the top three teams willing to spend a hefty chunk of their salary budget on me, my gut had practically screamed to go to the Waves.
While I was protected from their expansion draft last season, there was something about being part of a team resurrected from the dead that made me feel less miserable about leaving my old team. The head coach was a Black woman my mom and aunt played with in the Olympics, Tashi Blade, who was able to get the Waves to the first round of play-offs last year. I played enough against them and studied their footage enough to know they could use a dynamic forward and guard, and I was here to answer their call.
Plus, maybe I thought I would look great in their cobalt blue and turquoise uniforms.
