I glance up at the game, grabbing her segue out of deeper waters like a lifeline. “You a Lakers fan?”
“Die hard purple and gold.” She folds her arms on the bar and leans forward, her eyes back on the screen. “New Orleans didn’t have a team when I was growing up.”
“Well they’re getting crushed tonight,” I offer unnecessarily, hoping to get a rise out of her. Of course, it works, and she goes on a diatribe defending the storied Lakers legacy, though it’s taken such a beating lately.
Through halftime and the last two quarters, we squeeze in a lot of conversation between plays. She wants to work in sports marketing and has several internship opportunities that might pan out after graduation. It seems like most of her stories eventually circle back to her cousin Lotus, the ambitious badass fashion student who always has her back. For my part, I avoid rehashing all the things she already knows about me: the numbers on stat sheets and the stories that have been looping on all the sports shows. Instead, I tell her about my mom, about Coach, about the philosophy class that’s kicking my ass. We cover everything from minutiae to monumental in the time it takes the Lakers to get blown out.
“What did get you so into basketball?” I ask her during a fourth-quarter commercial break.
“I dunno.” She studies her beer, probably long gone flat. “One of my mom’s guys, Telly, lived with us for a while when I was around ten.” She leans one elbow on the bar, giving me a frank look. “He was one of the few good ones who stuck around for a little bit. He loved basketball. Loved the Lakers and we’d watch the games together.” She chuckles, making track marks with her fingertips in the condensation coating her glass. “On game nights, we’d order pineapple pepperoni pizza and drink root beer floats.”
“What happened?” I sip on my third ginger ale. “To Telly, I mean?”
She answers first with a little shake of her head. “He outstayed his welcome, I guess.” Her eyes drift to the screen, maybe an excuse to look away. Or maybe the game really has grabbed her attention. Lakers have the ball. “Someone else came along with more money. Mom traded up.”
“You ever see him, talk to him again?”
Her eyes abandon the screen, and for a few quiet moments, she studies the bar top. “No.”
The word comes low and husky. After a moment she looks back up, flashing me a half-teasing grin. “But I still like pizza and root beer when I watch the Lakers.”
“No pizza on the menu here?” I mumble around a handful of nuts.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” The smile she shares with me morphs into a scowl when the final score displays onscreen. “Another one for the ‘L’ column. Shit calls all night, ref.”
“Really? Shit calls?” I glance from the game back to her face with skepticism. “Nothing to do with the fact that the team is aging and plagued by injuries the last few seasons? End of an era, if you ask me.”
“Bite your tongue,” she snaps, but there’s a playful glint in her eyes. “You could end up going to the Lakers. Have you thought of that?”
“Who knows where I’ll end up?” I slant my smile at her. “I’m hoping for the Stingers.”
“Baltimore?” A frown crinkles her eyebrows before clearing. “Oh! Your hometown, huh?”
“I mean, it happened for LeBron in Cleveland. He played where he grew up, for the Cavs.”
“True. Why do you want to stay close to home? You a mama’s boy?”
My laugh booms over the TV commentators analyzing the Lakers’ loss in the background. “My mom’s pretty awesome, but that wouldn’t keep me close to home.” I stare into my ginger ale instead of at her, a little uncomfortable to express my reasons. “I just want to do something for the place that did so much for me. I was in the Boys and Girls Club. I had amazing teachers, especially in middle school when a lot of my friends started going off the rails. The community center’s where I fell in love with basketball.”
Self-consciousness burns my face, and I shrug. “My whole childhood was there, and that community made it a good one.”
In the beat of silence after I finish, I glance up to find a slight smile on her face and warm eyes that meet mine easily.
“That’s cool,” she offers simply, and I’m glad she doesn’t make it a big deal even though it must be obvious it’s important to me. “So, you ready for the draft?”
I appreciate the shift of subject. It’s not likely I’ll go to Baltimore, and I don’t let many people know how much it would mean to me. “I am, but it’s all happening so fast.” A dry chuckle rattles in my throat. “The NBA was some distant fantasy when I was in the
eighth grade. Now it’s right here, and unless something goes really wrong, it’s actually happening. I just hope …”
My words trail off, but my uncertainty remains. It’s not even about my ability to play at the next level. I know I’m prepared for that. It’s all that comes with it that I’m not sure I’m ready for.
“You’ll do great.” Her slim fingers close over my hand, gripping the glass. “You’ll be an amazing player.”
Just that light pressure, just seeing her hand with mine, feels good. Something about the sight levels the unevenness I’ve felt all day and unlocks words I haven’t said to anyone.
“I want to be more than just a player. I want to use my degree. I want a business. I want a family.” It feels like a confession. “To be a good husband. A good father. This world I’m entering in a few months, I’ve seen it devour guys. We work toward this all our lives, and an injury, age, a bad trade, whatever—can end it overnight. If the game has eaten up your priorities, turned you into someone you never wanted to be, what’s the point?” I laugh self-consciously. “I probably sound—”
“You sound too good to be true,” she interrupts, her hand still resting on mine. “Guys in your position, the night before the big game, right on the edge of the draft—these aren’t things most of them are thinking about.”