Page 36

Chapter 35

Lia

“You didn’t need to come,” Wes argues, his eyes darting around before settling on mine. “I just saw you on Thanksgiving.”

I shift my weight on one foot, taking in my little—but much taller—younger brother. He’s wearing a dress shirt, light blue to match the color of his eyes, and khaki pants. There’s something about him that still feels young, but he’s almost a legal adult, which doesn’t seem real. It feels like he was crawling into my bed, recovering from a nightmare, not that long ago.

“Stop. I’m so proud of you! There weren’t that many athletes up there today.” I look around the school auditorium, which is filled with families and friends.

The high school is celebrating any athlete with a GPA of 3.8 or higher. My aunt and uncle couldn’t make it, and there was no way I would leave Wes with no one cheering him on. No matter how badly I slept last night, nothing was going to keep me from this. My skin has been itchy when I try to go to sleep, no matter what I put on it. I think I’ll have to try Benadryl or something tonight.

Ugh. I wish my doctor’s appointment wasn’t so far away.

He rolls his eyes. “Isn’t there a home game? Shouldn’t you be working?”

Ah, there’s something he got from me—the worrying about everyone else before taking the space for yourself .

“I rearranged my schedule and am going in later. Only thing I’m missing is the catered food, but since you and I have a lunch date, I’ll be fine.” I bump into him before reaching up and pulling him in for a hug.

I hold him longer than either of us anticipate. Wes squeezes me before asking, “Wait, is something wrong? Are you sick? That’s why you came today?”

Pushing myself away, I gasp, “No! Why would you think that?!”

Wes shrugs his shoulders, tilting his head and replying, “All I know is you trading any time away from the Jags arena, to be anywhere else, is cause for concern.”

I scoff at the joke and lightly push his chest, which he then turns into a dramatic stumble backwards, his hand covering where my fingers barely touched him.

“You’re just jealous you haven’t been to a game yet,” I scoff.

His eyes flash with confusion. “You’re right. What the hell is up with that?” He shifts from trying to be funny back to the dramatics.

This is the best part about Wes. He’s always been extremely likeable and easy-going. While he may try to perpetually put others first, which is something I’m still trying to grow out of, he’s always had a good head on his shoulders. Typically, he gravitates towards people like him and stays out of trouble. He gets it, even when someone his age shouldn’t have to.

Maybe it was the tragedy that changed us both down to our bones, and we lost a lot of the bickering that siblings are almost programed to do. It’s not that we never fought or annoyed each other again, but it was always short-lived. We were always so eager to get back to our baseline that no fight really lingered.

“Let’s look at the home game schedule at lunch and pick a game. Sound good?”

“Yes. Especially now that Brooks is back. He’s starting tonight, right? ”

Brooks. It’s like I watch him slam into the court on repeat. It hurts in a way that I almost lose my breath. I try not to think about him that night on FaceTime. The fear in his eyes. I don’t know if it would’ve been worse or better if I had made the trip for that away game.

“I think so. I watched him practice yesterday and he looked solid,” I reply. He played with a hesitancy he’s probably familiar with. It was probably worse when he was coming back from the ACL injury, and part of me is glad I didn’t get the job until after. Him playing like that, beating himself up, questioning everything? It hurts me.

“That injury looked way worse when it happened,” Wes adds. “Glad he was out for only a few games.”

I nod in agreement, afraid to open my mouth and give myself away. We walk towards the exit and I wonder if I should tell Wes about Brooks and me. We’re not big on keeping secrets, mostly because we know each other too well. There’s a solid chance he’ll come to the game, watch me with Brooks, and figure it out on his own.

That might be the other reason I haven’t offered Wes a complimentary ticket, but who can really say? Maybe I’m afraid to see him watching Brooks and I together. I mean, he’s a teenager—maybe I’m giving him too much credit?

Wes stares at me curiously. “I’m not trying to be weird, but what’s going on with your eyelids?”

My reflection from this morning roars back. Red bumps appeared again at the corner of my eyes. I didn’t remember seeing them the night before while I was doing my skincare routine.

I try to brush away his concern. “Ah, don’t worry about it. Just allergies.”

I have no idea what it really is, but I’m still waiting to get in to see a dermatologist. If there’s something that is complete bullshit, it would be healthcare in America. Even if I had the money to pay out of pocket for an appointment, everyone I’ve called is booking six months out. My name is supposedly on a few cancellation lists, but I’m not holding my breath.

“You had the perfect opportunity to say you were allergic to me and you didn’t even take it,” Wes jokes, shaking his head as we get to my car.

I let out a laugh, almost too loudly, and playfully push Wes in response.

There’s something spectacular about a good thrift store find. I walk through the arena with my head held a bit higher—yes, it’s game day, but I’m also wearing the most perfect purple blazer. It’s one of those pieces that’s bold enough to work in the best of ways.

I thought the idea of home games would lose its luster, but that’s far from the truth. My heart races enough for me to notice and a smile is permanently on my face, sort of aching my cheeks.

I walk courtside and can practically feel Brooks before I see him. It’s as if there’s a string between us which snaps into place when we’re in the same vicinity. He’s dribbling up and down the court, warming up for a key matchup in the conference. The Jags are third in their conference while the opposing team is first, but only two games separate them.

Tonight is a prime-time game—it’ll be aired nationally, which means some of my favorite commentators will be working. I pick up the pace, eager to get in the booth to watch everyone get ready for tonight.

For a prime-time game, we seem a little light on staff. Entrances and places which usually have three to four security or building staff seem to have only one tonight. Maybe they’re wrapping up a meeting or had an incident?

Before going to the booth, I stop by the staff hospitality suite to grab a Dr. Pepper and a snack. Lunch with Wes was so much fun, but naturally we talked for way too long and I had to rush to get here. I wanted to have time to stop and get something, or see if any catered food was left, something easy to grab for later, but I ran out of time. It won’t be the first or last time I have chips for dinner.

I’m opening a bag of Doritos when Megan stops me. “Lia, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says hurriedly. Once she gets closer, it’s clear something is wrong. A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead and upper lip, and it showcases how pale she is.

“What’s wrong?” I lean back, trying to put as much space between us as possible.

Megan groans and puts a hand to her mouth. She takes a second, lifting her eyes up to the lights like she’s trying not to throw up.

“Not contagious,” she barely gets out before taking a deep breath. Once she steadies herself, she continues. “The catered food. Bad. Half the staff has food poisoning.”

“What about the players?!” I look out to the court and see what looks like a full team going through warmups.

She slowly shakes her head. “No, they had a different caterer. Thank god.”

As Megan seems to get it together, standing tall and moving her hand from her mouth, the sound of someone else throwing up in a trash is much closer than I wish it was.

“Oh no,” she slumps, her face even whiter than before as she rushes into the connected media booth .

I follow to see one of the commentators—someone I’d do unspeakable things to meet and pick their brain about the craft—casually throwing up. This is a nightmare. I feel like my feet are superglued in place.

“So, as you can see, we’re down a body. I haven’t eaten anything since we’ve been here, but we can’t have only one person calling this game. I called the studio and confirmed there’s no one they know of who made the trip that can step in. Do you have any backups in the building?” Blake, the commentator and an ex-NBA player, asks while acting like his colleague isn’t currently throwing up four feet away from him.

Megan puts the back of her hand to her forehead, pacing a few steps back and forth. “No, I don’t think so,” she groans.

“No coaches who can spare the night off?” Blake persists. “Anyone on your staff who has a decently pleasant voice and can help fill the silence by going back and forth?”

There’s a flame of nervousness in my stomach. It grows with each second Megan doesn’t offer a suggestion. I look at the clock; there’s only twenty minutes until coverage starts—there’s not a lot of time.

I take a deep breath, doing my best to keep my voice level and mustering as much confidence as I can.

“I can do it.”

Blake’s eyes go wide for a second as he rocks back on his heels, arms crossing in front of his chest.

“Are you sure?” It’s not condescending or dismissive, but he’s giving me a second to reconsider.

The basketball part of my brain, one filled with a bunch of random filed away facts and tidbits, lights up and my mouth hurries to keep up. “I’m sure. We’re looking at an Eastern Conference matchup between two honest title contenders—neither has won one yet. The away team is on a five-game win streak, but the Jags have the best winning percentage on their home court. The real test will be the points in the paint and offensive rebounds.”

The words spill easily from my mouth, and Blake’s lips pull into a smile the longer I rant. “Plus, I thought you should’ve won defensive player of the year in 2014. Honestly, it’s a crime you didn’t win… I mean, how often is there a 7’3” center who has an average of 6.1 blocks per game?”

His eyes sparkle as I rattle off the stat I don’t even remember holding on to. I let out a long breath; my head feels full of feathers as my skin buzzes with energy.

“She can totally do this. I know she’s familiar with the tech side of the booth. Plus, our fans love her,” Megan assures Blake, her hand still touching her stomach while her other sits not far from her mouth.

“What’s your name?” He smiles and steps closer to me, reaching his hand out for a handshake. It’s like everything is happening in slow motion.

I put my hand in his, happy my Doritos are tucked under the other arm. “Lia. Lia Stone.”

“Alright, Lia. We’ve got about fifteen minutes to get your notes in order. Let’s do this.”

He sits down at the booth, and when he gestures to the empty seat and headset next to him, I swear I almost pass out.