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“Iris.”
“Not a word,” she insists, bringing two fingers to her lips and making a zipping motion.
She lasts four minutes, because when Hades whistles for the rondo, I hear her from the other side of the circle asking Zoe if she’s seen how happy “Brit” is today.
***
On Tuesday, at my therapy session, I tell Amara like I promised.
“There’s someone,” I admit, though it comes out clumsier than I’d planned, almost scared. “Jordan Hayes. The psychologist who left the club I play for.”
Amara smiles and nods. She doesn’t ask for details.
“Thank you for telling me. It’s important. We’ll keep an eye on how things develop,” she says, and goes on with the session.
When the hour is up, she stops me when I’m already about to walk out the door.
“Do you play for yourself, for your father, or for the team?” she says out of nowhere. “It’s important that you think about it and find an answer to that question.”
I swallow.
Outside, the little bell on the bike shop door rings twice.
***
On Thursday I meet Jordan for lunch at her office in Capitol Hill.
She sets the Tupperware containers on the side table and stays standing, her back against the wall. I take a step forward and brush her jaw with my knuckles while she closes her eyes. She smells like coconut shampoo and for some reason, at that moment it crosses my mind that it’s a scent that doesn’t match how organized she keeps everything. I slide my hand down her neck and she sighs, parting her lips as my other hand slips under her blouse.
Right then, two short knocks and one long one sound at the door.
She pulls away so fast she almost stumbles, and the door opens without waiting for permission. A woman a little shorter than Jordan walks in, with the same jawline. She looks me up and down as she hangs her coat over the back of the chair.
“Ah, so you’re the player,” she says by way of greeting.
“Beth, this is Noa.”
“I know, she’s on TV,” her sister answers, rolling her eyes.
Jordan blushes and steps out for a moment to get a glass of water nobody asked her for, leaving us alone. As soon as the door closes, Beth sits on the edge of the desk and pins me with her stare.
“You’re going to need quite a bit of patience with her. She’s very smart, but she’s not good at relationships. She’s never going to ask you for anything; you’ll have to figure it out on your own. But if she loves you, she’d walk through fire for you.”
***
On Friday, on the massage table, Tessa digs her thumbs into my right trapezius and whistles softly.
“These muscles are finally relaxed. No built-up tension for the first time in I don’t know how many months.”
She doesn’t ask why, because I’m sure she knows. She weighs me before I leave and writes something down on my chart with a smile.
“You’ve gained the weight back. That’s good. And you’re sleeping better. It shows in your face,” she adds.
I thank her, but just before I walk out the door she stops me.
“Noa, HR closed Jordan’s file a month ago. They wrote that nothing had happened because that was the truth. If they now see you show up walking arm in arm with her at the training complex, that ‘nothing happened’ might raise some questions. And it’s her license on the line, not yours. So inside the club facilities, be very careful,” she warns me.
***
