“Forty-five, but what’s a few million here and there?” I joke.
“But what about the team?” She asks, ignoring my attempt at humor. “Houston made the finals this year.”
“Yeah.” I stamp down the fear that I’ll never win a championship, never have a ring, the holy grail I’ve pursued most of my life.
“That team is primed for a championship,” she reminds me unnecessarily. “Maybe even next season.”
“Iris, I’m well aware.”
“But it makes no sense. I don’t understand.”
Here’s my chance to get it right. My chance to make sure she knows that, though I’ve been chasing a ball up a court all my life, with this I’m not playing games.
Take the shot.
“Your dreams and ambitions got swallowed up when you had to follow Caleb,” I say, holding her eyes with mine. “I want you to know there’s someone who will follow you.”
She blinks several times, and I can only hope my words are sinking in.
“But you can’t … I’m not …” She falters and tries again. “August, Houston is your best shot at winning a ring.”
“You’re right.” I loosen my fingers from hers so I can hold her face between both hands. “Going to Houston is my best shot at winning a ring.”
“Then why would you—”
“But staying here,” I cut in, caressing the fullness of her bottom lip with my thumb. “Staying is my best shot at winning you.”
40
Iris
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
It’s not the first time Lo has asked me this question, and it certainly won’t be the last.
“Don’t start, Lo,” I mumble, stretched out on my stomach on the living room floor, coloring with Sarai.
“Now tell me again what he said?” she asks, knowing good and damn well what August said. I’ve told her the last four times she’s asked.
“He said Houston is his best shot at winning a championship,” I repeat, stripping all the emotion from my voice but swooning all over again inside, “but staying here is his best shot at winning me.”
“Damn, he’s good.” Lo gathers a fistful of popcorn. “The last thing I would be telling that man is that I want to go slow.”
I don’t answer but keep my head down and focus on coloring in the lines.
“More like, let’s go right now.” She squints at the television mounted on the wall. “Now, which number is he?”
I glance up from the Frozen coloring book to the television broadcasting the Waves game. The players’ backs are turned into the huddle for a time-out.
“He’s number thirty-three. It was his dad’s number, too.”
“Now his dad was a brother or what?”
“Yeah, his dad was black. His mother’s white. His father actually played in the NBA, too. He died in a car accident his second season.”
“Oh, man. That’s rough.”
We both glance at the television when the crowd cheers. August just made a three-pointer. He high-fives his teammates.