Farrah turned to me, confused, knowing I was no stranger to confrontation. “But why not?”
“I’m trying this thing where I go with the flow. You know, no whiney middle child baby shit.”
“Does this have to do with the rumors?” she inquired.
“My reformed behavior has absolutely nothing to do with baseless rumors,” I deadpanned.
“I think a newly-expanded league team avoiding murder isbetterthan coming off as a whiney child.” Farrah shifted her body, her shoulders tense and her face serious. After sophomore year, Farrah wore the title as captain of our college team, the only person capable of leading without fear, and keeping my growing outbursts within reason. If there was anyone who could keep me in check back then, remind me to bring it back down—especially if Nola was involved—it was Farrah.
I set my hands on my best friend’s shoulders, trying to convey how absolutely serious I was taking everything. How, for once, I didn’t want my emotions to lead my logic. I refused to be the reason I was on the hunt for a new team next year.
“I am doing everything in my absolute power to be mature, wise,logicaleven. I think this is Rashida and Allison’s doing, and between that and Tashi scaring me shitless, I am a new person! I want to stay in Miami long term, so if I can fuck this up as little as possible, that’d be great.”
“I’m choosing to believe you, Bee.” Farrah held out her hand for a dap up then a pinky promise. Our hands did not separate until we kissed our fists. “Plus, selfishly, I want to play with you ’til we retire.”
“Now let’s go do goddamn a scrimmage.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nola
My face hurt from smiling all day. My public persona skills had trained me for long days like this, but with Marcello always within arm’s distance with his camera recording, I was “on” longer than I would like to be.
Every hallway, every t-shirt, my new uniform, was a reminder of where I wasn’t anymore. The home I used to have, the friends I used to trust more than anything. Every step deeper into the arena locked my stomach up and reminded me that I was starting over.Unwillingly.
I checked my phone before I headed onto the practice courts, messages from my closest friends on the Violets,, my little sister, and my parents. I ignored all except Olive, who’d simply said,Maybe dunking on her will make you feel better.
Now that made me smile.
During our rookie year, when I knew the vitriol Brittney had for me wasn’t going anywhere, I started turning my hesitance to animosity. I had decided that if she wanted to make me avillain, then that was what I was going to be. I whispered in her ear, untucked her shirt—which was against league rules—and persisted in a way that she called, “a pesky rash,” in one of her press interviews.
In the last game to determine if the Jaguars could scrape by to clutch a play-off spot, I dunked on Brittney.
It technically shouldn’t have been possible. I’m not six foot five inches, or a center who could easily have the momentum to get up that high. But after I tipped the ball away from Brittney, taking the turnover back to our half of the court, I only saw white, only heard the roar of the crowd in home territory.
I leaped.
And let’s just say she might not have gotten over that one.
When I stepped onto the courts, I noticed there weren’t many active members playing, just me, Brittney, Farrah, and the Waves star center, Erica Prep.
I tried to calm the nerves that were buzzing through my body; an anxious feeling I hadn’t felt since my last college championship game. It had taken me a while to name what I was feeling. That anytime I played in front of a new team, a bigger crowd, important people, the self doubt would start. I was weighed down by what everyone thought when they saw me as a professional player: that I was only here due to nepotism.
It was an annoying itch I couldn’t scratch, a permanent ringing in my ears no matter how much I showed the world I was my own person. I had skills even Olivia and Nolan hadn’t managed in their primes.
I had perfected my own arch when I shot threes, my elbows tight, my wrists languid. Compared to my mom’s playing days—she’d had wild elbows and a crooked frame that seemed to work every time. I was faster than my dad, and my defense blocks were cleaner than his. I made it my mission to not only playbetter than my folks, but different too. Nothing a commentator could chalk up to genetics and lived experience.
I tried to keep this in mind as Tashi commanded our attention. “I want to see what we got going on here.” She flicked her fingers between the four of us. “No one’scontractuallyobligated to be here so, White and Prep, thanks for coming.”
Farrah and Erica nodded their heads with all the respect Tashi deserved.
“I’ll have White draw the ball up and Prep under the net. Young and Lee, I want to see where you guys naturally go.” She clapped her hands to commence the end of her instruction and walked off to the side.
Brittney’s face was stoic. I could never guess what she was thinking. Half her hair was up in a bun, while the lower half barely brushed her shoulders. The turquoise Waves penny we both wore fit looser on her frame, the wide holes giving a clear view of a white sports bra and lean, defined muscle. It was almost second nature for me to block her, but I remembered we were on the same team.
With only four of us on the court, Brittney and I were forced to cover the bottom corners of the arc while the practice squad set up a stance for defense. At the blow of a whistle, it was instinctual for me to run up to the shooting guard, my speed creating enough space to get away from my defender, and get the ball from Farrah.
On the roster, I was technically a guard/forward. A skill not many players were confident in saying they could do, considering we were mostly trained for one position our whole careers, and hope we learned more skills along the way.
