The team rivalry is sidelined, my only focus the man in front of me.
“That mouth is going to get you in trouble.”
“I was thinking more about hers.”
My hands fist at my sides.
I’m not big on giving people the benefit of the doubt, but I’d like to think I’m a better person thanks to Nova’s influence.
Plus, I’m on a basketball court with cameras and millions already watching. My options are limited.
“You know that’s Jay’s sister.”
He lifts both hands. “My bad.” Kyle seems surprised, like he thought he was making small talk, but when he sees how seriously I take his words, anger creates a predatory glint in his eyes.
In the second quarter, a switch flips and Denver digs in. We play back and forth, scrapping for every possession, every point. I try to take the ball more, but so does Kyle. It ends up being a battle between us instead of between the teams.
And Denver is benefitting. Slowly, they claw their way back.
In the second half, I tell myself to get back to business.
We focus and start to stretch out the lead once again.
When Jay takes a hard foul from Isaac, no one’s there to help him up. So, I hold out a hand. He’s forced to take it but doesn’t say a word.
I’m guarding an inbound play when Kyle leans in and says, “Think I changed my mind. I’d take them together or apart. That pink hair would look real good wrapped around my hand.”
I hit him.
My knuckles connect with his cheek, hard enough I hear the crack.
The entire stadium erupts in gasping and hollering. Kyle comes back on me, and I fall hard on my knee.
Pain radiates down my shin, stabbing like a white-hot knife. When I look up, Nova and Brooke are watching with their hands over their faces.
“You’re out of the game!” the official declares as I lie on my back, staring at the lights.
I watch the rest from the treatment room as our head athletic trainer probes my knee and calls to arrange scans.
LA wins.
We’re bound for the playoffs with prime seeding against our first-round opponents.
Denver is eliminated.
The win doesn’t feel nearly as good as I’d hoped.
LA WINS CHAMPIONSHIP WHILE WADE WATCHES
After sailing through the Western Conference, LA beats Miami to claim the ultimate victory. All-star Clayton Wade watched from the bench nursing a repeat knee injury.
WADE SKIPS SUMMER LEAGUE WITH NO COMMITMENT FOR THE SEASON
Clayton Wade hasn’t exercised his player option to stay with LA. Neither has the all-star committed to another team. Is Wade taking a well-deserved break, or is there something else going on?
WITH THE PRESEASON A MONTH AWAY, CLAYTON WADE HAS YET TO WORK OUT FOR ANY TEAMS
It’s nearly basketball time again, but the only place Clayton Wade has been photographed is the golf course. What’s his plan? Fans drafting their fantasy teams want to know almost as much as the real sports execs.
6
NOVA
September
“Relax. See how deep you can take it.”
The tension up my thighs intensifies, but I try not to resist it.
My eyes shut. I exhale and bend farther, my nose grazing my knees.
The barre class is full of eager students ready to do whatever the toned, middle-aged instructor says.
“Deeper, baby,” a woman with blond hair whispers to the red-haired woman next to me.
The red-haired woman snorts.
“Imagine there’s a line connecting your heart to your legs.”
“There is. It’s called a blood vessel.” The blonde again.
This time, the redheaded woman’s shoulders rock, and a laugh escapes. She turns toward me, grinning as her bright blue eyes meet mine. She looks vaguely familiar, but it’s the humor on her face that makes me bite my cheek.
“If you’re going to be disruptive in class, I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to leave.” We all straighten as the woman leading the barre session gestures to the group. “Right, everyone?”
Her eyes land on me, and I shrug. “I thought it was funny.”
The teacher’s penciled brows slide up her forehead as she points at the door. “Out! All three of you.”
We bolt for the changeroom, heads down, in a silent line.
Inside my locker, my phone is showing one new text.
Dee: I have offers on the table, and I’ve used every excuse in the book. Please use whatever magic you have. I’m begging you.
I didn’t realize things had gotten this out of hand.
I start to type out a quick text to Clay but get interrupted.
“Sorry, that was my bad,” the redheaded woman says to me, and my gaze snaps up.
She’s pale and freckled compared to the usually tan people I’ve come to recognize in LA but strikingly beautiful. She and her friend look around my age, maybe a few years older.
“Still have half an hour. Think coffee will have the same strengthening effect as barre?” she goes on.
“On your brain,” the blonde supplies, and they both laugh.
My lips twitch too.
“I’m Annie,” says the redhead, “and this is Elle.”
“Nova.” I push the hair from my face and lower my phone.
“Why don’t you join us?” Annie asks. “The least we can do is buy you a drink after getting you kicked out of barre.”
It’s better than trying to decide what to do about the fact we’re weeks from the start of the season and Clay has no contract and, evidently, isn’t speaking to his agent.
The three of us head down the block to a nearby café. The ever-present sunshine beats down, and I tug my sunglasses out of my bag and slip them on my face. It’s instinct after the past few months here.
“This place has the best lattes. I’d sell my appendix for one,” Annie says as she holds the door for me to go in first.
“That’s hardly a sacrifice. No one needs their appendix,” Elle counters.
“My liver?”
“That one you do need.”
“I love this place,” I say. “I draw in here sometimes.”
“Are you an artist?” Elle asks as we line up at the counter behind another pair of women talking, little dogs clutched in their arms.
It’s the first time someone’s asked me that in a long time.
I pull out my phone and show them my social feed.
Annie scrolls, her eyes widening, and Elle nods slowly.
“This is amazing,” Annie says as she surveys the posts of dancers, athletes, kids playing. “Is this why you’ve been taking barre, to study dancers?”
“Annie’s a dancer. A real one,” Elle volunteers, and Annie rolls her eyes. “And a singer and an actor and a writer.”
“Elle’s exaggerating.”
We’re ordering our drinks, Annie pulling out a credit card before I can even offer to pay, when suddenly her face clicks in my mind.
“You’re Annie Jamieson.”