Page 13

Chapter 12

Lia

The Jags pull out a win at home in overtime, and I love how this place feels. Every staff member has a grin plastered on their face, the fans are ecstatic, and it’s like the building has a heavy happiness seeping out of the walls.

I love it. More than I thought I could.

I’ve been watching basketball my entire life. My dad would turn on the Jags, put on his ratty shirt—the only Jags merch I think he owned—and we’d sit in front of our tiny TV, lamenting over a team we wanted to win but rarely ever did.

My dad taught me the purpose of each player, basic offensive and defensive plays, and the different types of fouls. It was always our thing. Mom would move around us; never upset she wasn’t included but in awe that we had such a connection.

When Wes was old enough, he slipped into the living room and wore his own Jags shirt, one he got for a birthday but was quickly growing out of. Game days have always held a special place for me.

After my parents died, game days became the one thing Wes and I kept close. We lived with an aunt and uncle who did their best, but it was barely enough most days. They never had enough money and were always scraping pennies together to make ends meet. I quickly learned how to take care of both Wes and myself, much sooner than anyone should be asked to do. I’d find odd jobs around the neighborhood: cutting grass, raking leaves, pulling weeds, walking dogs, or any other task they’d let me try.

I had a small music box that was my mom’s, and I’d put the dollar bills, and sometimes coins, I’d earned in there. When Wes crawled into my bed in the middle of the night, he’d tell me how he was still hungry or needed something for school. That’s when I’d dip into the box, a pink ballerina spinning delicately as I cranked the handle on the bottom.

Wes and I fought when our parents were around, but we simply survived while we were with our aunt and uncle. I wish things had worked out differently, but I’m grateful for the way it brought us together. Wes is one of my favorite people in the whole world and I’ve felt like that for a long time.

I’m texting him as the team is wrapping up their work for post-game coverage—our players are still doing press.

Wes

tell me you were at the game tonight

I send him a selfie I took earlier. I’m standing on the court, my arm stretched out as far as it could to get me and as much of the arena as possible. It makes me giggle because I’m smiling like my dreams are coming true.

are you kidding me

i can’t believe this is your job

when can I come?

Me

i wanted to get through the first week or so before i asked for free tickets

brooks was so good tonight

that jumper is silky smooth

Smiling down at my phone, I think about our interaction before the game. Brooks was practically in tears with worry. The lines were deep in his forehead, his lips the thinnest of lines from being pressed so tight, and his eyes felt like they were afraid to look at anything besides the floor. I had to hold back from wrapping him in a hug, squeezing as tightly as I could. Hugging certainly isn’t what colleagues do.

“You want to get some food?”

Brooks stands in the doorway of the completely empty media room—my colleagues don’t tend to stick around. Meanwhile, I could get lost in here.

I can see the exhaustion from the game on his face and, for some reason, I want to give him anything he asks for. I don’t know if I’m so excited that he got through the game, or if I’m too exhausted pretending I don’t want to, but I say, “Yes.”

Here’s the thing: Brooks doesn’t even look surprised.

“Do you think they’ll give us a vat to go?” I ask as I dip another warm tortilla chip in some of the best salsa I’ve ever tasted.

“I’ve definitely done that.” Brooks swipes a tortilla through the salsa before popping it in his mouth .

We’re sitting in a back booth of a taco spot I’ve never thought about walking in to. I look around and find most of the restaurant empty. “You come here a lot?”

“It’s one of my favorite places and I’m not sure how it hasn’t blown up yet. Everything here is authentic and so fucking good,” he answers, his hands already in the tortilla chip basket, going for another.

We sit in silence besides the crunching of tortilla chips and the sounds of staff moving around the restaurant. Brooks ordered dinner for both of us, making sure there wasn’t anything I was allergic to or didn’t like. I didn’t tell him that when you grew up like I did, you didn’t get a chance to be picky.

“Tell me a secret,” he suggests, catching me off guard.

“Only if we can trade them,” I counter.

Brooks nods and his mouth pulls into this ridiculously hot half smirk.

I rack my brain for a secret—it’s not that I don’t have a lot to choose from, but I don’t know the vibe. Is this the sort of exchange where we talk about the time I went to class in a bikini for a dare or is it something dark from my childhood? My brain snags on a secret that falls in the middle.

“My aunt thinks chocolate cake is my favorite. Every holiday, special occasion, and celebration she makes a cake from scratch with buttercream frosting. But it’s my least favorite.” I cover my eyes, afraid to see his reaction.

“Wait, your least favorite?”

“Yes! Like, I’ll never turn down cake and I’d definitely try one bite of any kind, but I don’t even like chocolate cake all that much. She made it once and I don’t know what happened. And then she was so proud every time, I could never correct her.”

“How long has this scandal been going on?” Brooks asks, leaning back in the booth with one hand resting on his chest .

I think back to the first birthday without my parents. It still stings when I put myself back in that year. “I was twelve. I’m going to be twenty-seven soon. So… fifteen years.”

“You’ve been choking down chocolate cake for a decade and a half!” Brooks laughs and it’s quiet but shakes his shoulders. “What is your favorite?”

“Carrot cake. With cream cheese frosting. My mouth is watering thinking about it,” I answer, shimmying my shoulders with excitement.

“Me too. Completely underrated pick.” He smiles as his eyes land on mine. It’s infuriating how he can pull me to him like this with a single glance. His eyes are like the bottom of a honey pot.

“Your turn,” I say, reaching for my glass of water.

Brooks rubs his hands together, shaking them out before stretching his neck, his head dipping side to side. “When I found out that Zack was my brother, I was afraid to meet him—not for any reason other than I thought he wouldn’t like me. I was worried we wouldn’t get along or he wouldn’t think I measured up.”

Definitely leaning towards the heavier.

“Zack Andersen? The man is like a walking golden retriever,” I say, placing my hands on the table and making a noise borderline too loud.

“I know. I mean, that’s what the media showed, but people put on a good act.”

“Fair. And I hate to tell you this, especially because I know your ego is already inflated from another notch in the win column, but you’re kind of a big deal.” I emphatically roll my eyes before they land on his face.

“Sometimes it still doesn’t feel like enough.” His voice fades from the strong, confident person sitting across from me until it’s small enough to fit in my pocket.

“For who? ”

“Me. The team. The fans. Take your pick.” Brooks shrugs his shoulders before he coughs, getting passed the shakiness in his voice.

This hits me. Hard. The idea of this professional athlete, a multi-millionaire, doing the thing he’s probably dreamt of his whole life, and still not being sure if he’s living up to the standard.

It’s like he’s pulling back the curtain from one of the things I keep deep inside myself—the idea of enough. How much of myself can I give to meet expectations? Do I even have enough to measure up?

This can’t be easy for him to share. I don’t say anything but reach over and squeeze his fingers. He squeezes them back and then our hands sort of stay like that—intertwined on top of the table—until they drop off our food.

“This looks… wow.” I’m practically drooling as I scan the table, which is full of a variety of tacos, tostadas, and mini chimichangas.

Brooks claps his hands, rubbing them together. “Make sure you get a bite of all three of those tacos. That’s your first assignment.”

When he ordered everything I had no idea what the end game was, but I love that we’re going to be eating it family style, even though it’s only the two of us. I’ve never been one to hesitate when it comes to sharing food, but I know that’s not always the case.

“Wait, I just thought of something,” I exclaim, my hand hovering above the shrimp taco I’ve had my eye on since the server set it on the table. “Did you sneak a date out of me?” It’s wildly apparent that we’re in a dim room, sharing a meal.

Brooks shakes his head, his mouth full with a bite of tostada. He finishes chewing and says, “No.” He shakes his head, the middle of his brow scrunched. “Truly, you showed up for me before the game and I wanted to say thank you.”

I nod with the shrimp taco in front of my mouth, the smell of lime and cilantro making my stomach hurt with how hungry I am .

“But maybe it was a subconscious plan…” His voice trails off as he cuts off a piece of a chimichanga covered in queso. He tilts his head back and forth, like he’s weighing the merits of if it was or wasn’t, all while wearing that half smirk that could be the end of me.

Maybe I should be mad? Or feel like I was tricked? But I’m not. Spending time with Brooks is smooth. Effortless. If I wasn’t working for the Jags, I’d be dying to go out with him. I can’t imagine a world where I don’t say ‘yes’ and let him whisk me away to hole-in-the-wall taco spots or wherever else he wanted to take me. Besides maybe the one where I’m working somewhere I’ve dreamed of my whole life.

But maybe there’s a way to have both?