“If anything, he’s trying to keep me.” I grimace at how that sounds. “What I mean is you know I care about Caleb.”
“Of course,” Lotus says, watching me closely.
“It’s just lately, it seems like he’s asking for so much more.”
I hesitate, not wanting to paint Caleb in a bad light, but Lo lifts her brows and nods her encouragement for me to go on.
“He’s been dropping hints about marriage and that he wants me to move with him to the city that drafts him.”
“But what if your opportunities aren’t in whatever random city drafts him?” Lo’s brows pinch together. “He knows you want to pursue your career in sports marketing, right?”
“Of course. Yeah, I’ve always been up front about that,” I say. “But now with the draft approaching, he doesn’t want a long-distance relationship, so it keeps coming up.”
I’ve always plotted my path in the opposite direction of my mother’s. Independence. Not relying on a man. Making my own way. If there’s one thing I know about my course, it’s that I have to stay on it.
“Well speaking of.” Lotus elbows me. “Your future father-in-law is heading our way.” She nods toward Caleb’s father and his cousin, approaching through the crowded stands, stopping every so often to smile and chat.
“Would you stop saying that?” Exasperation weights my sigh. “It’s bad enough everyone else assumes Caleb and I are already practically engaged.”
“To hear Aunt Priscilla tell it, you’ll be married and pregnant by Christmas.”
“Pregnant?” I scowl. “Mama would love that. The higher Caleb goes in the draft, the more she’ll want a grandbaby to hook him for life. That’s the last thing I’m thinking about. A baby right now would ruin all my plans.”
“What’s the rush anyway?” Lotus adjusts an errant lock of hair until it knows its place on my shoulder. “Why’s Caleb so eager to get married?”
“I know. What’s wrong with a long-distance relationship? I’m not ready for marriage. It’s too soon.”
“Do you love him?” Lo’s eyes pick around the edges of my expression.
“Sure.” I shrug, looking down at my knees. “I mean, we say it to each other, but does that mean he’s the one? I don’t know. We’ve been dating a year. We started as friends, and he’s gorgeous and smart and considerate. I’d be crazy not to love him, right? He’s perfect.”
Lotus puts her hand over mine. “Hey, look at me.”
I meet her eyes, braced for whatever she’s about to say.
“It doesn’t matter if he’s perfect, Bo, if he’s not perfect for you.” She squeezes my fingers. “You need a guy who respects your ambitions and your dreams.”
“I think Caleb can be that guy.”
But even as I say it, I question if it’s true. If my ambitions took me to one place and Caleb to another, would he expect me to follow him? Would I lose him if I didn’t? I hope I don’t have to choose. I know how important basketball is to him, but does he really understand how important my dreams are to me?
“Just be sure,” Lotus says, pasting on a plastic smile and aiming it over my shoulder. “In the meantime, here comes papa.”
“Good evening, ladies,” Caleb’s father says, finally making his way to stand in front of us.
Donald Bradley’s smile is always as carefully coordinated as his ties and tailor-made suits. The word that comes to mind is calculating, like he’s added you up and subtracted you to determine how much of his time and attention you merit. His every movement is smooth, but there is a hardness to him that makes me wonder if there’s really a heart beating beneath that silk shirt. He’s so much like Caleb physically—the same golden hair and dark blue eyes—but Caleb doesn’t have that hard smoothness.
Not yet.
It’s a whisper I try to ignore. The thought of Caleb evolving into his father drops a bag of stones in my belly.
“Hi, Mr. Bradley.” I glance up at the man beside him, forcing a smile for Caleb’s cousin. “Hey, Andrew.”
“Hey,” Andrew replies politely. Neutral is the word I always associate with him. He’s in medical school, so I know he has his own talents, but beside the vitality of his superstar cousin, there is something . . . bland, beige about him. Like he’ll match whatever’s around him, absorb whatever he needs to in any given situation. Maybe that’s not the worst thing, but it makes him hard to read. When you grow up with a series of creepy “uncles” in your house like we did, you learn to read men’s intentions. What makes me wary of Andrew is I can never read his.
“You’re both welcome to join Barbara and me up in the box,” Mr. Bradley says. “We’ve got quite a spread up there to celebrate after my boy wins tonight.”
“I’m fine here for now.” I try to warm my lukewarm smile. “I like being close to the action.”
“And I’m sure Caleb wants to see you in the stands.” He looks at me sternly. “But tonight at the party, work the room some. A beautiful wife is a huge asset for a man like Caleb. We’ve got as much work to do off the court as we do on it.”
My teeth grind together. I have so many things I want to do before I settle down. And right now, none of them involve being a baller’s trophy wife.
“I’ll support Caleb in every way that I can,” I say. “Just as I’m sure he’ll support the things I want to pursue.”
Mr. Bradley wears a pleased smile and pats my shoulder. “There are all kinds of charities and committees for the players’ wives that I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”
“We’ll see how much time I have,” I tell him. “I’ve applied for several internships, including one with St. Louis.”
I don’t have to wait long for his reaction.
“St. Louis?” His thick brows lower and clump over his eyes. “My team?”
Mr. Bradley, already in the Hall of Fame as a player, is a front office executive for the St. Louis expansion team. He’s built many teams from nothing into championship-caliber squads.
“St. Louis is one of the teams I’m interviewing with, yeah.” I suppress a satisfied smirk.
“You should probably wait to see where Caleb is drafted before you make any commitments,” he says, his tone condescending. “You’ll want to know where he lands.”
“I’m actually in the final round of consideration for a few internships,” I say, keeping my expression placid. “So we’ll also have to see where I land.”
He squints and tilts his head, considering me like I’m a worrisome puzzle. My pieces aren’t fitting the way they should. Most girls would jump at the chance to secure a future with an NBA player. So why am I hesitating to marry his golden boy?
“Well, we’d better be getting back to our guests.” He nods toward a nearby tunnel. “See you up in the box after the game. Let’s go, Andrew.”
With one last look, Andrew turns to follow.
“You’re marrying into a fucked-up family.” Lotus shudders, shaking herself.
“I’m not marrying . . .” There’s teasing in her eyes. “Stop pushing my buttons.”
“But with my heavy workload at school, it’s one of the few joys I have left in life.”
“Find new joys.”
We share a grin, and she links her arm through mine, leaning her head on my shoulder while we watch the pre-game shenanigans. Mascots for both teams run the length of the court, using trampolines to slam-dunk balls. A kiss cam gets going, and Lotus and I can’t stop laughing at an elderly couple kissing like teenagers fogging up a backseat window.
And then I see him. I haven’t allowed myself to look for August since the players came on court for the pre-game shoot around. I’m not that close, and you couldn’t squeeze a gnat in this building because there are so many people here. Still, I worry that he’ll spot me.
I could be worrying for nothing. I mean, he must have girls chasing him all the time. Some inconsequential chick he met in a bar is probably utterly forgettable.
Except it didn’t feel inconsequential. Not the things we shared or the look on his face when I walked away. None of it felt inconsequential. And though I know I should forget, I can’t stop remembering.
My mom used to say it took a crow bar to pry me open, but with August, I surprised myself. I didn’t hold back. When was the last time I talked so openly with anyone besides Lo?
Down on the court, he faces a teammate, dribbling two balls, one with each hand, his posture relaxed. He laughs at something the other player says, his lips spread in a flash of humor and charisma. An indolent swagger hangs on him like his basketball shorts, easy and loose, but a barely veiled energy crackles around him. He’s nimble athleticism and latent power on the verge of explosion.
In an instant, he goes from the ease of his teammate’s camaraderie to the trademark precision shooting that’s inspired awe in basketball pundits throughout this tournament. Eyes fastened on the hoop, he knocks down six three-pointers in quick succession. From wrist to bicep, one arm is sheathed in a shooter sleeve, a compression accessory some ballers use to keep their arm warm and increase circulation. A few colorful tattoos paint the other arm, but the most prominent one is on the ball of his shoulder, the number thirty-three. It’s his jersey number, but I remember hearing it was his father’s, too.
He’s not wearing his jersey yet, and when he tosses the ball back and forth between his big hands, palming and raising it over his head in a stretch, his T-shirt lifts, exposing rungs of muscled abs.
My breath catches. My body flattened to his last night, the check above his head. The rock-hard chest and arms. The gentle hands and eyes. The strength and heat of him, the way he smelled—everything about him made me want to press closer. To be as close as I could get. I wanted to kiss him. The source of all this guilt isn’t what I did with August. It’s what I wanted. What I felt.