It’s getting better.
That’s what I tell myself.
Like rehabbing an injury, you have to believe it’s one percent improved every time you go through the routine. In sports and in life, momentum is everything.
Over enough time, one percent adds up.
The halls are nearly empty. No one knows about my deal with Harlan or that I’m still waiting on a trade to LA. It’s getting more frustrating by the day to put in my max effort here when I know I won’t be in Denver through the end of the season.
Not that I’ve been an antisocial prick the past month.
I’ve helped Rookie with his jump shot.
Went sneaker shopping with Jay.
Hell, I even dog-sat Waffles one afternoon for Miles.
What I’m not doing is answering any of the women who’ve hit me up.
None of them have pink hair and slow curves and a smile that makes the world brighten like a rainbow after a storm.
Thinking of the woman who came into my life out of nowhere and blew out of it just as fast makes my chest ache.
But I ended it because she’s better off being halfway across the country living her safe life without me.
I tell myself that late at night when I’m restless in an unfamiliar bed and so starved for a taste of her that I’d settle for listening to her voicemail greeting on repeat just to feel like we’re still talking.
With ninety minutes to the game, I need to start my routine. Then shootaround and tip-off, then I can take an ice bath, crawl into bed, and sleep for ten hours.
I don’t want to see anyone from the team, so I take the longer, more public route to get to the home locker room.
The music pulses in my ears, vibrating through my muscles, joints, skin.
When I head into one of the open hallways, every part of me stiffens. I pull up, and my bag thuds against the floor.
Her back is to me, the back pockets of her tight jeans at eye level as she stands on the ladder, her weight on one hip. Her hair tumbles down her shoulders, headphones tucked between the hot pink strands.
She’s here.
Nova’s at my workplace, in my jungle, taking up space like a pink neon sign declaring, “In your dreams.”
The feeling in my gut isn’t sadness but longing. A throbbing ache that swells until it consumes all of me.
I’m not over her.
Not one percent, not anything.
Forcing my feet to move, I grab my bag and change directions.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” I slam the door of Harlan’s office behind me.
Harlan looks up, surprised. “You have a game.”
“The game can wait for an explanation.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I drop the bag and pace the room. “Don’t lie to me. We made a deal. You’d get me LA if I stayed away. How the hell am I supposed to do that when she’s parked in my commute?”
“Who?”
“Nova.” Saying her name hurts. The ache in my chest takes root, deepening and spreading to my lungs, my gut.
Harlan’s expression sharpens. “Impossible. She went back to Boston.”
I stab a finger at the door. “She’s on a ladder in the lobby, staring at a wall like it’s playing HB-fucking-O.”
He frowns, his gaze dropping to the desk.
“You didn’t know,” I realize.
“The tenth-anniversary gala in February. James wants to make it a showcase, a triumph. Celebrities, music, art.”
The owner is a spoiled rich asshole who cares more about style than substance, but I’m not sure what he has to do with…
Art.
A piece clicks into place.
“He wants her to paint the wall.”
“What wall?” Harlan asks.
“The big fucking blank wall in the foyer.”
Harlan sighs.
“I’ll talk to him. If he hasn’t made a contract, there could be time to get rid of her. Assuming that’s what you want.” He shifts back, and I’m already seeing where he’s going. “It would be a big break for her. Her drawings at the auction were one thing, but art commissioned for the team? That gets seen by millions of people. It could make her career.”
Damn it.
I know how important getting your big break is. She’s talented and hardworking, and she deserves it. Everything she’s done is to be independent and stand on her own feet.
And if I end this, I’ll be the prick who took that from her.
“Our deal stands,” he reminds me. “Nothing has to change.”
The deal where he gets me my trade to LA, all but guaranteeing me the golden legacy I’ve spent my entire career chasing, and all I have to do is stay away from her.
“Yeah, and how’s that deal coming?” I demand, needing somewhere to focus that’s not the girl living rent free in my head.
“A few more weeks.”
I stare at the photos on his wall. Teams Harlan’s worked with over the years.
He wants a win here. He and I disagree on a lot of things, but he won’t compromise that goal.
Nova returning wasn’t Harlan's doing. He might fuck with people, but he’s not willing to risk the team’s future for this.
No, this is the owner imposing his frivolous will and not having a clue what he’s getting into.
Which in some ways makes this worse, because I have no one to take it out on.
My phone rings.
Coach.
I hit Accept.
“WADE!!! I don’t care how much your ass is worth—”
“Be there in five,” I answer, clicking off.
I shove the phone in my track pants and reach for my headphones. “She should work when the team isn’t here. She’ll be in the way.”
I start for the door, reaching it before I hear Harlan’s chair scrape the floor as he rises.
“You really cared about her, didn’t you?” he asks, his voice lower than before.
I slip my headphones over my ears and pretend I don’t hear him.
3
NOVA
Once I started staring at the wall, the music in my headphones grabbed me. It took an hour to ignore Clay’s eyes at my back, but now I barely feel them as the mural takes shape in my mind.
It’s about the blue. The clouds, the atmosphere, all of it blending with the mountains guarding the skyline.
After my conversation with James, I was intimidated by the need to create way more than I'd planned. But I’ve drawn it in my sketchpad, made some changes. I erased the parts I got wrong.
It’s easy to get swept up in the simple joy of creating. I’ve been standing like this, leaning over the seat of the ladder, for so long my foot is numb. When I stand and stretch, my muscles spasm.
I hear what sounds like my name, but it’s far away. When I twist toward the sound, Miles is coming down the hallway, Jayden at his side. His expression is bright with happiness and surprise.
I catch a toe and slip.
The floor hurtles upward, my sketchpad flies through the air.
“Nova!”
“Shit,” comes another voice. Jayden’s maybe.
I was always so worried about dying in a plane that I never stopped to think about the more boring ways I might go.