“True.” Jared reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. “But maybe circumstances will change, or the job will.”
He proffers a business card to me, which I stare at like it’s Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket. I don’t have a free hand to take the card, and I’m too shocked to, anyway.
“I’m not with Richter anymore.” He realizes my small dilemma and slides the card into the open front pocket of the baby bag hanging from my shoulder. “My cell’s on the card. When things settle some, call me.”
I glance from the card poking out from the bag to Jared’s handsome face. “I’m with Sarai’s father, Caleb Bradley, and we live here in Baltimore, so I’m not sure when I’ll be able to … that is to say …” A brittle little laugh breaks over my lips. “There are just a lot of obstacles.”
“Let nothing hold you back or keep you down,” he says, kindling my memory. “Isn’t that what you told me in our interview?”
“Yeah.” I return his smile. “I guess it is.”
He smiles, his eyes curious. “Bradley, huh? Would never have guessed.”
“You know Caleb?” Of course. Everyone knows him. “I mean, personally?”
“No, only by reputation.” Jared grimaces as if that reputation isn’t great, which makes no sense. Everyone loves Caleb. Living with him, I’ve seen the holes in the polished façade he projects to the world, but few do.
“We should get to your seats, Ms. DuPree,” Ramone says firmly, aiming a sharp look at Jared.
“Don’t let me keep you,” Jared says easily, addressing me and ignoring Ramone. “You have a beautiful daughter, Iris. Call me when she’s a little older if you decide to venture back into the workforce.”
“I will.” I hesitate a beat before asking the question that keeps turning in my head “Why? Why would you want me to come work for you? We had one interview, and I—”
“Impressed me,” he cuts in. “It wasn’t just what was on paper. It was you. Your passion for sports. Your love for basketball and your grit. Your intelligence. It all showed in that interview. A lot of people would love having you on their team, and I’m one of them.”
He looks at Ramone, who shifts impatiently from one foot to the other.
“I’d better let you go,” Jared says, amusement in his eyes. “Remember. Call me when you’re ready.”
I try not to glare at Ramone as we take our seats just a few rows behind the Stingers’ bench. He’s just doing his job. I get it, but Caleb and I definitely have to talk about this.
Even Ramone’s overbearing presence can’t dampen my spirits. Jared Foster wants me on his team. I may be closer to independence than I thought.
15
August
From tip-off, I know something is wrong with Caleb. I’ve been facing him since we were bare-faced adolescents whose voices hadn’t changed yet. I’ve studied him and know his every tell and all his triggers. Something’s different. Something’s changed. He’s even more aggressive than usual, but he’s not hiding it in sly side-plays the refs and the cameras miss. He’s more blatant and less controlled than I’ve ever seen him
. Almost unhinged. Sloppy. Picking apart his game isn’t even a challenge this time, and his frustration boils to the surface and over the sides quicker than usual.
Me—I’m having the game of my damn life.
Tres. Trois. Triple.
Any way you wanna say it, I’m raining threes. There’s a zone a shooter enters where the hoop feels closer and wider, like a woman spreading herself open and making it easy for you to slip in. You hear swoosh before the ball leaves your hands. It feels like you could close your eyes and make every shot—you’re that in tune with the net. That’s the zone I’m in tonight, and for some reason, the Stingers coach leaves Caleb on me when we all know he couldn’t guard me with a sword and shield. He’s never been able to, but he always insists on trying. His ego is not only his downfall, but his team’s, because remarkably, we’re up at the half. This game does matter for them. They’ll probably make the playoffs, but they’re in the wild card position. They need to win, or other teams need to lose for them to make it. And if I have anything to say about it, they ain’t winning shit tonight.
“You guys are killing ’em,” Coach Kemp says when we huddle after halftime before the third quarter starts, his eyes fixed on me. “Keep it up.”
He’s a good leader, but everyone knows his assistant coach, Ean Jagger, is the brains behind this operation. A college injury ended Jagger’s pro hopes, but he’s a basketball savant. With his dark, closely cropped hair and black-rimmed glasses, he’s got a little bit of a Clark Kent vibe going on. Around Deck’s age, he’s one of the most respected minds in the league. Every team wooed him, and I have no idea how Decker cajoled or bribed him to slum it with an expansion squad, but thank God he did.
When we break, Jagger waves me over. I join him by the bench, tucking my jersey into my shorts.
“’Sup, Jag?” I don’t have to bend because at six foot seven, he’s got an inch on me.
“I know you’re in the zone right now.” His deep timbre rumbles low under the collective hum of the waiting crowd. “And every shot is falling, but if you go cold, we’re fucked.”
“’Scuse me?” I glance at him with a frown.