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Chapter 1

Brooks

October

“I hope your pillow is warm and clammy for the rest of time—that's how terrible this drink is.” I try not to gag as the taste of peanut butter whiskey lingers on my tongue.

The drink, which I think is supposed to be the equivalent of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, is borderline offensive. I chug my water, trying to rinse my mouth of the syrupy sweet aftertaste.

“It’s not that bad!” Clay protests, taking a sip of the drink, swishing it around his mouth, and to my horror, swallowing it.

I push my empty water glass forward, giving him room to refill it. To be fair, it’s the first dud of the bunch when it comes to what he’s tried out on me tonight. Clay is a longtime friend and bartender at Oasis, an almost-too-hipster bar downtown. Usually, the drinks he puts in front of me are delicious.

Not tonight.

“Peanut butter whiskey is having a moment,” he insists, talking with his hands to emphasize his point.

Moment or not, it’s disgusting. I don’t need peanut butter alcoholic beverages.

Thursday night energy, the weekend in everyone’s grasp, has people filtering in for dinner and drinks. I’m wearing a baseball cap, sitting at the edge of the bar on a stool which barely looks like it’s meant for a guest .

That’s the point. I don’t want to be seen.

Tonight, I want to be Brooks Pittman, friend of the bartender—not Brooks Pittman, NBA player recovering from an ACL injury.

Even on my good days, I’m plagued with thoughts of how many NBA players don’t come back from an injury like this... not really. The worst part is how I’ve supposedly done this in seven months, basically record time when it comes to an ACL recovery—most athletes need nine to twelve. Technically, I am recovered. According to my team doctors and physical therapists, I should have full strength, mobility, and range of motion and explosiveness on the court. I hear them, but I’m not sure if I believe them.

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Clay says. “I’ve made way worse drinks than this one.” He dumps the rest of the cocktail in the bar sink.

I take another swig of water, still trying to lose the taste and reply, “Fucking doubtful.”

A clicking sound pulls my mind from the terrible drink and over to a woman about to sit a few barstools away. Her hair falls on her shoulders like rays of sunlight, quite the contrast against a black leather jacket. With high cheekbones and pale pink lips, she’s gorgeous, but it’s her legs which make my eyes go wide. Her golden and smooth skin pull my eyes from where her dress ends all the way to her high-heeled shoes. There’s quite a bit to take in; I’m guessing she’s almost six foot tall in the heels and maybe 5’9’’ without. A forest green dress hugs her body, showing the curves of her hips and stopping mid-thigh, while the muscles flex as she gets situated.

She turns, catches my eyes, and offers a polite smile before running her hands through her hair, like she’s situating the loose curls. For the next few minutes, she alternates between looking at the door and stretching her neck from side to side. Clearly, she’s waiting for someone .

Clay lets her gets comfortable before approaching and asking what she’d like to drink.

“Can you surprise me? Nothing too sweet, but everything else is fair game,” she answers while shaking out her hands.

He reaches for a glass and asks, “What are your thoughts on peanut butter?”

Before she has a chance to respond, I interrupt. “No. Just say no. Trust me.”

Her face softens with amusement, and I can feel the blood rush to my face. I’m not one to interject myself into other people’s business, but no one needs to be exposed to whatever cocktail Clay is trying to get on the menu.

“Nothing too sweet and no peanut butter.” Her voice is light as Clay gives me a look that screams, “Stay out of it.”

A few minutes later, mystery woman has a drink in front of her—something with bubbly wine, judging by the glass—and a man sits next to her. He’s wearing a Tom Ford suit, one my stylist sent me as a pre-game outfit option, and suede loafers. I roll my eyes when I realize his hair is prepared to withstand wind gusts up to 45 MPH—the gel is excessive. I try not to stare, but out of the corner of my eye I see his face twist—not in a good way—when she stands to greet him. I don’t know what this man’s issue is. She’s a fucking smoke show.

He orders a scotch on the rocks with a splash of water, and I can feel Clay about to stroke out. This particular bottle of scotch runs about $4000 each and is not meant to be tampered with. He pours the scotch over ice, his face grimacing as he adds the water, and says something like, “It’s your funeral,” when he serves it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Jalen

I'm so excited for you to get back on the court

this is our year

i can feel it

I swallow past the lump in my throat as sweat dots my forehead. The season started a week ago, but I’ll make my debut in two days. Whenever I imagine stepping back on the court or checking into a game, all I can think of is the night I tore my damn ACL. My nightmares are montages of the pop I heard and felt. The pop that threw me into a dark depressive hole—one I’m trying to stay far away from.

My stomach flips from the anxious walk down memory lane. I try to switch my train of thought, but it’s no use. I think about the hours between now and when I’ll be back on the court in my purple and gray Jaguar jersey. How can I be so terrified of the thing I love? The thing I was devastated to lose?

Honestly, it feels like the injury was due. Like things had been going too well for too long? My team was kicking ass every night, but more importantly, we were having a blast. The game almost felt too easy at times. Maybe this was how the universe puts me back in my place?

I thought the drinks would help with the anxiety, but Clay had other plans—horrible plans.

“What did you just say?” The mystery woman’s voice grabs my attention. I turn to find her looking at the guy next to her, but she’s tilting her head.

“I’m sure you’re nice and all, but you don’t look anything like your pictures. And don’t you think the heels are a bit much? You’re clearly tall enough without them.” His voice is loud enough to try and get a reaction from those around them .

Holy shit.

She scoffs and looks down at her drink before pressing her lips together.

“If you want to talk dating profiles, I think you left your crippling small dick energy from your bio, Randall .” Her voice scrapes over each of the letters in his name—sarcastic and pointed.

Clay lets out a slow whistle and a high top near the bar lets out a laugh. It’s not that we’re eavesdropping, it’s just impossible not to listen.

“Wouldn’t you like to know about my dick?” the guy snaps, standing from the bar stool, clearly trying to get under her skin.

“I’m sure it’s a real short story.” She uses her hand for emphasis, with only an inch in between her thumb and forefinger. “Wouldn’t even count towards my reading goal for the year.” She turns back to face Clay and beams when she hears the laughs from around her.

I quietly laugh because that was fucking gold. She seems annoyed but pretty unbothered. The guy puts three crisp $100 bills on the bar, his hand smacking the surface loudly. “I’m surprised you even know how to read,” he spits, and then he utters something that sounds very much like “dumb bitch.”

I’m out of my stool and in front of him in just a few strides. His eyes go wide as he takes me in, and I can tell from his expression he knows who I am.

I tip my head towards the door. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“You’re Brooks—”

“Sick of your shit? Yes. Go.” I keep my voice level, flat, and to the point.

The guy says nothing as he turns on his heel and heads for the door. Some of the guests clap and cheer as he exits the bar. I catch a look from Clay, one that asks, “What the fuck are you doing?” but I choose to leave him wondering .

“Lia, your table’s ready,” the hostess calls, not realizing the other half of the date just got laughed out of the place.

“Ugh, actually, I don’t think I need the table anymore.” Lia’s voice is disappointed, low, and like a punch to the gut. She touches the elbow of her jacket, rubbing the spot over and over.

Naturally, I do something ridiculous. I lean my arms on the bar next to her and ask, “Want to have dinner with me?”