by Leslie North
“Let me tell you something about Liam. I never knew him—the real him—until the moment I stopped expecting him to be perfect.”
“Is that the moment you told him goodbye?”
“No. That’s the moment I fell in love.”
Willow buried her face with the blanket’s edge. Mostly, to catch tears before they fell. Again.
“He won’t speak to me. He won’t even look at me.”
“These things have a way about them.”
“Sounds like something my mother would say. I could use a shot of Estelle right now.”
“All right. Quit your damned bellyaching, stop feeling sorry for yourself, and consider that you ran this off into the ditch before it had a chance because your expectations are impossible. Maybe he has good reason to keep people at arms’ distance. He’ll never be you—which is a damned good thing. The world can’t handle more than one of you. Exhausts me just to be around you.”
Willow gave a weak smile.
“Wake up tomorrow with purpose and don’t look back.”
At the mention of tomorrow, Willow groaned. The wish foundation had come through where she had failed. Day after tomorrow, Dylan would arrive with a medical entourage, expecting the exclusive Chase Holbrook experience. Thomas had called her to let her know that transport on another specialty plane bound for Pittsburgh opened up and everything had been arranged but the one-on-one with Chase. That, they figured, would best come from someone on the inside. How could she tell Dylan she had irrevocably screwed any chance of fulfilling his most important wish?
“I said awful things.”
“Then find a way to unsay them.”
“How?”
Estelle grunted to standing and kissed Willow on the top of her head. “In a way only you can, my dear. Don’t stay out here too long. I’ve got more important things to do in the morning than to thaw a frozen body.”
She left Willow to her thoughts. Chase’s words returned to her.
Basketball is my family.
Estelle’s words quickly followed.
Wake up tomorrow with purpose and don’t look back.
She grabbed her cell off the table and pulled up Bolt’s social media account. Six million followers. An adrenaline pump rocketed through her arteries.
In a way only Willow could, it was a start.
13
After morning practice, Alloys players spilled into the locker room. Chase stuffed his duffel to head home. Tarek turned off the wall of televisions, plunging the space into rare silence. Fine by him. Since Tarek had shattered the record, Chase had gone on a strict media diet.
The sixteen grown-assed men staring at him with nothing to say proved more troublesome.
Chase’s gut dropped to his sneakers.
Booth spun his padded chair around and Nunzio used his seven-foot-one, two- hundred-and-eighty-pound persuasion to make sure Chase took the offered seat. The rest of the team gathered around.
Tarek dropped a stack of hundreds on the carpet’s center Alloy’s logo. Imprinted on the paper bank band: $10,000.
“What’s this?” asked Chase.
“Tainted money, my friend,” said Tarek.
“You won the bet, fair and square.”
“Doesn’t matter. Can’t keep it for all the trouble it’s caused.”
“What are you talking about?”
Rogers stepped forward and dropped a couple of hundreds on the stack. “My part of the bet pool. Day I came here, Willow found my grandmother a wheelchair. She’d always wanted to see me play. Willow stayed with her all day, made sure food services piled up a special plate for her. That’s the day the granny cam tradition started. Every time my grandmother came to a game, Willow adopted her, made sure she felt like royalty. That’s solid, man.”
Rogers took a step back. Wilcox stepped forward and dropped more cash on the pile.
No. No fucking way he was sitting through this. It was too intervention, too blame-game. He tried to stand. “Guys—”
Two of Nunzio’s fingers on his shoulder changed his mind. Chase settled back, arms crossed. He didn’t have to listen.
“Those anonymous presents wrapped and waiting for us in our lockers on our birthdays?” said Wilcox. “Willow, man. Never none of that store-bought shit. Always something homemade, just for us. Tarek gets a king cake with a baby shoved inside each year. Rogers got a quilt patched with the jerseys of every team he’d ever played for—and that’s a fuckin’ lotta teams, man. Dude gets traded more than insults at a NASCAR race.”
The room filled with chuckles.
“Me?” said Wilcox. “A framed artist’s rendering of each of my tats, man. Different one every year—two so far. Each one of them damned personal.”
Nunzio followed suit—money and story.
“Year I came here, Willow put on a bachelor’s auction. Raised a hundred grand for the flood victims in my hometown. Makes me choke up every damned time I think about it.”
The hitch in Nunzio’s normally powerful voice caught Chase’s ear, and he began listening. Really listening. Twelve more players stepped forward, each dropping a testimonial about Willow’s character along with a wad of cash on the pile until Tarek’s money had doubled. More than doubled. When everyone had their say, Tarek settled in a backward chair, eye-to-eye with Chase.
“You got it all wrong, brother. Willow got caught up in it because she was doing what she does best—making the lives of others around her better. The Chase that gave me a run this year—that inspired me to be my best? That Chase was never better than when you were with her. This Chase, here? The one who can’t see what an amazing person Willow is, that she’s worth fighting for? That’s a Chase that doesn’t deserve someone like her. That’s a Chase I don’t want to know.”
And in an irritatingly choreographed group move, they bailed. Every last one of them left him alone, feeling like he had consumed the dirty pile of money instead of merely having it dumped at his feet like some sacrificial plea to a goddess who could do no wrong.
He waited for a few minutes. No one returned. He couldn’t leave the money there, so he shoved it into a spare duffel.
In an hour’s time, he bypassed his Hummer in the secured lot, a few dozen cabs, and a proposition from two college girls for a ride in favor of a walk. A long, wet, cold-as-shit, soul-reaping walk. He had no aim, no direction. Truth told, he hadn’t since Willow left. Correction: since he kicked Willow out.
The wind shifted. Chase looked up from his perpetual stare at the icy pavement to see a green truck with a drunk-looking baby on the side. Head in the Flautas.
Alejandro spotted him.
“Aya, number twenty-eight.” He exited his truck and gave Chase a handshake-man hug combo that drove away the chill. “You make our city proud. Anything you want, on the house.”
“I’ll have Willow’s favorite.”
It was the first time he had uttered her name in days. Her name on his tongue felt foreign, right, and everything in between.
Alejandro prepared him a steaming plate. Chase ate it on the cement picnic table he had shared with her. Best tacos in town, and he couldn’t taste them. By the time he had finished all three, he knew what he had to do.
What Willow would do.
More importantly, he realized, what he would do.
Chase pulled out a fat black marker from his bag he carried for autographs and wrote a message on his empty plate. For Miranda. He waited until Alejandro grew busy with customers then placed the duffel containing the money just inside the food truck’s door, plate on top, and walked away.
Or maybe he floated. It was a little out-of-body, finding yourself again after losing the one thing you’d wanted for so long. This time, nothing to do with basketball. Everything to do with his end game.
He slipped his cell phone from his pocket and dialed. After asking Tarek to cover for him at the next day’s nine a.m. shoot-around, he hailed a cab back to his SUV. One unifying piece of his puzzle remained.
Well, a couple dozen if he counted Quetz.
Willow’s last ditch effort at distracting Dylan from his Chase-goal: food coma.
The arena vendors’ food was good for nothing if not the tasty, fatty, globular, brain-suckling carbs that could short-circuit nodes of memory in the brain.
Dylan patted his belly. “No way. I won’t eat for a week after that team meal.”
Tarek had relayed to Dylan their rookie initiation that involved the food services craft table and a six-course meal an hour before play. The story devolved into an appreciative vomit fest, the most delightful part of which for Dylan was the professional name dropping.
“Demarcus Shane yacked?” Dylan had pumped his knees with glee. “Oh my Gooood. That’s great.”
What was great was Tarek’s thorough—and time-consuming—tour of the Alloy’s locker room. And though female sports casters had been known to breach the inner sanctum, apparently mascots were strictly off-limits.
“Guy time,” said Tarek. “You understand.”
He had ushered Dylan away for a workout with the rookies, some free weights, some non-strenuous hoops—free throws, mostly—a coach presentation of a league-authentic jersey with his last name stitched on the back and a ton of other things that testosterone-driven teenagers and athletes bonded over for the two hours they were sequestered.
By comparison, Willow’s tour of the staff-only back areas of the arena—including the multi-million-dollar owner’s suite—probably ranked just above Dylan’s laborious disembarking of his medical plane: release forms, strict instructions, bags of medications which he was to keep on his person at all times, an extra bag of fluids and his introduction to a grouchy nurse escort that looked slightly younger than Estelle.
With two hours to go until tip-off, the kid looked cashed out.
And Willow was out of distractions. Not once had he mentioned his idol. She knew Dylan well enough to know he was being polite. Everyone had already done so much. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
Dylan lowered himself into a courtside chair. Thomas hovered, as he often did.
“You okay, pal?”
“Sure, Dad. Fine.”
Dylan didn’t look fine. He looked pale. Gray.
Thomas glanced at Willow. Prominent lines had sprouted in parentheses around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. Her brother had aged so much since his son’s diagnosis. She supposed if Thomas had stayed close to family, his burden wouldn’t have been as great. But in New York, he was an island.
Willow embraced him. He squeezed back, lowered his mouth close to her ear, and choked out, barely above a whisper, “Thank you for this.”
Waterworks sprouted in her eyes, but she couldn’t let Dylan see. Dylan’s grouchy nurse saved the day with an emergency tissue tucked in her sleeve. Willow supposed the woman was used to tears on assignments like this. Willow glanced around at her family—all of them, twenty-two in number, including Estelle, gathered for the first time since Christmas, laughing, hugging, enjoying each other in a way they never would again. A gravity of love.
Without a chance at the playoffs, tonight was the final Alloys home game of the season. And Willow’s final game as Bolt. If she was working toward a focus, toward her dreams, it couldn’t be as a smelly blue muskrat. No one grows up wanting to be a mascot. And it was past time for her to grow up.
Starting now.
She sat beside Dylan and held his hand. “’Sup?”
He flashed a weak smile.
“There’s a bed in the training room where Steve Nash napped when Golden State came to play. I can hook you up.”
“I’m good.”
“Dyl, listen…I know this day isn’t everything you wanted…”
“Are you kidding me? It’s more than I dreamed.”
“But meeting Chase—”
A familiar voice broke into the conversation.
“Didn’t quite rank up there with meeting all the Alloys dancers at the same time…”
Her family gathering parted like Moses and the Red Sea. Chase entered the fold in a flurry of handshakes, back pats, and one cheek-kiss for a very flushed Estelle. Willow’s chin spilled to her lap like stale popcorn on a buzzer-beater.
Dylan grinned. “Yeah. That was epic. Wait until Mike sees that photo.”
Chase and Dylan exchanged a handshake so complex, it could only have been germinated and perfected at another time, in another place.
Her nephew hadn’t asked about Chase because they had already met.
Chase’s gaze collided with Willow’s open-mouthed stare. His lips stretched taut on a quick grin before he refocused on Dylan. That dimple. Gah. Had she blinked, she would have missed it.
“Where is Mike?” Willow asked. “I thought he was coming.”
“Chase hooked him up with the Knicks. He’s there right now.” Dylan held out a photo on his cell phone of Mike with Carmelo Anthony.
The part of Willow’s brain that generated speech failed. Turns out, Chase Holbrook was worthy. The stuff of heroes.
“See you after the game, man? You can be front and center in the media room with me.”
Dylan’s eyes lit up. “Definitely.”
Chase said his goodbyes, reserving one final, indecipherable glance for Willow, then turned and jogged across the court and into the tunnel.
This prompted Estelle to declare, “That man is hotter than the Devil’s backside after eating jalapenos.”
At which twenty-two relations to the Bend family name laughed until they sprouted more tears, this time of joy.
Chase had been dreading the post-game theatrics. But in the forty-eight hours since Tarek had shattered the offensive ceiling, Chase had come around. Did he wish he was standing in front of the NBA commissioner, on a red carpet rolled out at center court, getting an award? Sure. But if he had to get out-hustled, Chase wouldn’t have wanted the honor to go to anyone else. He felt like a proud brother. In many ways, he was.
His gaze drifted courtside. Willow’s family packed the first two rows opposite the Alloy’s bench. Dylan had the biggest smile of all of them. Chase hadn’t been able to give Javier the mega-fan experience, but he hoped, in some small way, making sure Dylan and Mike had their wishes made up for it. Chase swore Dylan to secrecy when, together, they met with a wish foundation representative and gave away Dylan’s wish a second time.
An arena full of near-deafening cheers went up at the announcement of Tarek’s name. Bolt jumped up and down like a blue muskrat with feet springs. Chase clapped and laughed. He didn’t know where he stood with Willow, but it felt a little like beginning again, minus the part where he doubled down on the kids and mentally-challenged comment.
Tarek went down the line of teammates, shaking hands, embracing. The audience roar subsided. The commissioner spoke again.
“We have one other item of business to take care of tonight. I’d like to ask Chase Holbrook to come to center court.”
A stab of uncertainty—something close to panic—seized Chase’s lungs. This wasn’t part of the team briefing thirty minutes ago. He glanced at the cluster of teammates, those within reach smacking his shoulders, the rest smiling his direction. His legs didn’t process what was happening until Tarek joined him.
“Don’t keep the Commissioner waiting.”
“Is this a prank, dude?”
“No, man. Not this time.”
Chase walked from the far end of the team line toward center court. When it took too long, he jogged a bit. The awkward dwindle of audience noise picked up with his increased hustle. He gave a casual wave to the fans. He thought maybe crawling under the red carpet was a good option.
The Commissioner shook his hand. Chase took the space beside him.
“Each year,” began the Commissioner, “fans get an opportunity to become involved in the celebration of this great sport by getting one collective vote on the panel of sportswriters and broadcasters representing the United States and Canada. This honor, proudly sponsored by a car compa
ny with strong roots right here, in this fine city…
The media screens flashed with reels of sports cars speeding down the highway and a splashy logo. Audience cheers swelled.
Oh, God. Chase glanced at Tarek. His buddy smiled and nodded his head.
“…opens up to voting on the first day of the season and continues right up until the panel convenes. Two days ago, Chase Holbrook was in the running with ten other players around the league for the most number of fan-favorite votes. Then, this happened...”
Lights in the arena went on a slow-dim. The media screens lit with Chase’s usual player introduction then segued into a video package he had never seen before. Sound blasted across the arena—a mixture of a slow piano tune and voice-overs.
A wobbly cell phone video played. Javier’s face filled the jumbotron. Chase didn’t even remember Willow filming.
Instantly, his nose began to sting. Oh, God, I’m going to lose it right here on national television.
The home movie transitioned into an interview clip of a woman. The caption read Maria Villanueva, Javier’s mother. She talked about her son’s final days, how he told everyone who would listen about how Chase Holbrook surprised him in his hospital room and hung out with him all night. Her voice continued to narrate over video of Chase dancing in Bolt’s costume, quiet moments of her son and Chase reclined together, watching the Alloys game, and squeezing mashed potatoes through their teeth in tandem.
Laughter rose from the darkened audience. He scanned the stands for Bolt, but the lights were too dim.
Next up, a few of his teammates, ribbing him, giving away his secrets, like drive-thru burger runs in the middle of the night where Chase pays for the next twenty cars and never being able to pass a kids’ lemonade stand without stopping and drinking their entire inventory—which someone had caught on camera. They talked about his USO tour the previous year to Afghanistan, along with Marcus and other professional athletes, and flashed photos of him with men and women in uniform.
Then came the interviews.
Grady…
Loretta, the pediatric night nurse…
Sam in a dress…
