Sugar & Ice

by Brooklyn Wallace

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

  “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know how to respond to this.”

  “I’m not going to tell you that you have to do it,” Lorne said gently. “You are, despite what your dietary habits suggest, a fully grown woman who is capable of making her own decisions. I thought this would be a good opportunity for you, so I allowed him to pitch it, but you are under no obligation to take him up on it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you think this would be a good opportunity for me?”

  She sighed and fiddled with the gold band on her finger, one of the few nervous habits she had. She and her ex-husband had been divorced for almost a year now, yet she still wore it. I hadn’t even known her marriage was in trouble until nearly three weeks after the papers had been signed. She was nothing short of professional through it all. Maybe she came into meetings with a little more makeup and her head held a little bit higher, but other than that, I had been completely blindsided. She’d hiddenit well, but I always thought I should have been able to tell something was going on. That’s what friends do, right?

  Whether Lorne and I were friends or just business partners was a whole other can of insecurities I wasn’t prepared to deal with right now.

  “I worry about you, you know that?” Lorne said.

  That threw me for a loop. I frowned at her. “What? Why?”

  Lorne’s expression told me she wasn’t buying my attempt at naivete. “Tell me, Jackie, what do you do when I’m not calling you besides sit at home watching old games, practicing in the park at night, or sleeping?”

  I scoffed. “I’ve only been retired for, what, barely three years? Let me enjoy my freedom. I’m going to get back out there eventually.”

  Lorne’s expression waffled from exasperated to concerned to worried and back to exasperated in the span of three seconds. Finally she decided on neutral. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and measured.

  “Do you think . . . Is it possible you might be depressed?”

  I forced a laugh and shrugged. “It’s 2018, who isn’t?”

  She smiled grudgingly. “That’s true, but we both know you know what I mean. I haven’t seen you be happy, really honestly happy, since you played in the league.”

  “I’m fine,” I told her with my arms spread out like she could see just how fine I was written on my suit. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “It’s my job to worry about you. You certainly don’t do it yourself.”

  “Look, if I start to feel like jumping off buildings or listening to The Smiths, I’ll tell you. Promise. Okay?”

  I looked her in the eyes so she could see the truth lying there. Her eyes bore back into mine, blue and steely. Eventually she sat back, apparently satisfied.

  “Good. I’ll hold you to that.” She sat up and gestured to me. “I have another meeting in a half hour, so I’ll be in touch. Rehnquist only paid me to let him in the room with you. What you decide is all that matters now.”

  I nodded and she nodded back, satisfied. Still feeling a mess of emotions, I got up, pocketed the business card, and grabbed a muffin from her complimentary basket on my way out.

  Olivia once said that I’m skilled at three things: basketball, useless trivia, and punishing myself. I didn’t exactly prove her wrong when the first thing I did after my ambush meeting with Coach Murphy was make a beeline for my laptop.

  I’d Googled myself on more than one occasion since I left the league. At first, I told myself it was only to make sure paparazzi weren’t following me around without me knowing, but I stopped lying to myself after Google helpfully informed me I’d viewed my own Wikipedia page seven times in the last month.

  No one really talked about me anymore, not like before. Despite America’s relative lack of interest in women’s sports, my life had become a media circus in the immediate aftermath of me leaving the league. A female athlete who averaged 21.29 a game? Not news. An arrogant dyke who allegedly trash-talked her fellow teammates in between plates of pussy, on top of fucking up my knee in the middle of a game and losing them the championship, only to get exposed by the same teammates she looked down on? Now that moved papers.

  Three years ago when I left, it had been unbearable, but I hadn’t had to deal with the press in almost a year, though. I had fought hard to carve out a piece of sanity after all the madness died down. I shut out old friends, and shacked up with Olivia when I couldn’t stand the empty silence of my own house. I stayed out of the public eye as much as I could. Slowly, I had clawed my way out of the dark hole I had fallen into and found some semblance of being okay. And, yes, ‘okay’ for me was watching Netflix and allowing myself to be dragged out of the house every now and then, but it was a far cry from waking up every day and wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep, forever.

  And now I was being offered a ticket to relive it all again.

  My tendency to alternate between bouts of self-pity and self-flagellation should have deterred me from going to the NBA Cares website and seeking out the video of Felicity Michael had mentioned earlier, but that was what I did anyway. I grabbed my laptop and headed into my room. I even shut and locked the door behind me, as if I could keep shame and guilt out through that barrier alone.

  It didn’t take much searching to find the video Michael had talked about. It was on the landing page with a still of Kurt Lander, an NBA veteran, on the thumbnail. I didn’t hesitate to click Play, though I held my breath like I was defusing a bomb instead of not quite cyberstalking my not quite ex.

  The video was mundane in that predictable inspirational way corporations aim for. Shots of NBA and WNBA staples shooting hoops with kids, giving heartfelt monologues in the wide shot. A picture of a community organizer faded away in a tackily done star wipe, and then my breath caught in my throat. Felicity Moore grinning out at me, flanked by a dozen beaming kids in matching blue NBA Cares shirts. She wore her old Sonic pullover, and her diamond-studded championship ring glittered on her ring finger.

  “A lot of people think because we’re professional athletes, we don’t care about our local communities,” she said. The lighting unfairly emphasized the yellow of her hair and the green of her eyes. “That’s just not true.”

  Just as quickly as she was there, she was gone. The next interview with one of the Big Three coaches didn’t even register to me. As skilled as I was at punishing myself, I just couldn’t scroll back and watch it again.

  I watched the rest of the video play out in a blur of vague, inspirational words and upbeat music. When it ended, I exited the window and stared at my screen.

  I let my head fall back against the wall and tried to sort out the sources of the tangled mess of apprehension, self-loathing, and grief I felt. Coach Murphy had said he wanted me to watch the video so I could get an idea of what signing on would entail. A treacherous part of my brain whispered that maybe he just wanted to torture me a little, make me see how well everyone was doing living their life while I was here, isolated and miserable. I flung it from my mind with a scowl.

  Paranoia and self-pity were bedfellows that could fuck right off, because I was nowhere near being in the mood to handle both.

  I snapped my laptop closed, pushed it to the edge of the bed, and tried to ignore how much I wanted to open it again, to do whatever the non-creepy version of keeping notes on my ex-teammates was. That was an exercise I had thankfully grown out of—mostly. Even without Google, I still imagined the continued celebrity and success of my old teammates. I hadn’t needed Michael or Coach Murphy to tell me how well they were doing; I’d found that out all on my own.

  Some of them had retired after me, of their own volition. Cassidy and Mohana were both trophy wives to NBA players, cutting ribbons and posing for pictures for a living. Danica was coaching a women’s D-league out in Latvia. Felicity was thriving, of course. Working with NBA Cares allowed her to stay in the spotlight and rake in that go
od retiree publicity.

  I remember the first night we hooked up, right after the welcome party for me and the other rookies. The booze had flowed freely that night, so I only have bits and pieces, like the slaps on my back in congratulations, Coach Murphy squeezing my hand and telling me he was proud of me, and the smell of cherry shampoo in Felicity’s hair when we’d lain together after.

  She had said, “Look alive, rookie. This is the start of the rest of your life. Getting drafted was the start of mine, and now I’m never letting it go. Ever.”

  That dedication must have stoked her resentment toward me after I’d lost the finals for us. She stopped talking to me after that. At the time, that was what hurt most of all. Maybe I had been in love with Felicity, but she hadn’t loved me. She loved the game, the win, and I had taken that away from her.

  I rubbed my temples and tried to sort out my feelings. Having Coach Murphy come back into my life after everything that happened left me feeling off-kilter. I won’t lie: I loved the game, and back before everything went to hell, I loved that life. Even after I ruined our chances of winning finals, even after Felicity and I had fallen out and almost everyone took her side in the not-break-up, I still sometimes missed the good times. But that world always felt like it wasn’t meant for me anymore, like I wasn't allowed.

  Now, here was Coach Murphy and a smooth-talking PR agent trying convince me it was, and what could I say to that?

  I needed to get away from this for a while. Clear my head I grabbed my ball from underneath the bed and headed for the door.

  A couple of blocks down the street from my house was an old playground. It had seen better days; the paint on the benches had been chipped clean from green to brown. The chain on one of the three swings had been rusted clean through. The homeowners’ association called it an eyesore for such a nice area, but there was a much nicer one on the other end of the neighborhood, so no one made the push to get this one tended to. I didn’t mind. That just meant most of the time it was vacant—especially after dark. That was the best time to shoot hoops. No matter the day I’d had, I could always come down to the court and blow off steam.

  I did a couple of quick dribble drills before lining up on the makeshift free-throw line. It was a good four inches off, but I knew the paint well enough to adjust to get it just right. I dribbled once, twice, then squared up and shot.

  The satisfying swish of the net always gave me a pleasant buzz. I hustled after the ball, then took my place at the three-point arc. Dribble, square, shoot. Swish.

  I did my shooting drills with practice precision, going twenty-for-twenty up and down the paint. I didn’t have to think about anything as I drifted through the motions feeling something almost akin to invincible. There was no way to describe the feeling I got when I shot and watched it land other than cathartic. The zone I got in was an unmatchable high. The cracked asphalt was my hardwood and the shifting trees my cheering crowd. The heat in my stomach left my skin all a-buzz as I faded back, faked an invisible opponent, and sunk another two. I was alive.

  The high I was riding took my mind to a whole new place. What would happen if I did do the bout? What if I took a chance and ripped out the dark sludge that’s taken residence in my chest for the past three years and reminded myself and the world why I was once named MVP?

  Dribble, square, shoot. Swish.

  Standing on an asphalt court with sweat at my temples and the blood rushing through my veins, I could clearly envision myself playing. I could hear the squeak of my shoes on the polished wood and the sound of the crowd. It was intoxicating, invigorating.

  This time when I shot, the ball hit the backboard and bounced off. I jumped to keep it in bounds, could practically hear how the crowd would go quiet as they rose from their seats, and tilted coming down hard on my right side.

  Pain.

  Needles pricking into my ankle, followed by fire scorching up so fresh it was like I was burning alive right there in the middle of the paint. With a choked cry, I crumpled to the ground and reached out for my knee as if I could put out the flames crawling up my leg with my hands alone. As bright as it was, the agony burned out quickly, leaving on a tingling, numb sensation in its wake.

  It’s torn again no it’s broke no I’ll never be able to walk again I’ll never be able to play again no no no—

  A scream crawled up my throat, but I couldn’t get it out. I couldn’t even breathe. It was like the first time it had happened, when agony and confusion had won out over rationality.

  Shaking my head as if I could fling the mess clouding my thoughts from my mind, I tried to remember what I had learned in recovery. Breathe. Even if it doesn’t feel like you remember how, just try and breathe.

  I sat there and breathed through the pain the way my old physical therapist had taught me. I sat and breathed until even the numbness had gone. I sat and breathed until the adrenaline left and the lights went out and the crowd stopped screaming.

  I stood up and breathed in the cool night air until I felt anchored enough to move. I stooped down to grab my ball, turned my back on the hoop, and headed home.

  My knee stopped hurting halfway there, but my pride was still bruised. The moment I got inside, I collapsed on the couch and tried to clear my mind from everything except the sweat cooling on my skin. I needed a hot shower and to curl up underneath my duvet and never emerge.

  My phone rang, dragging me out of my thoughts. I fished it out of my pocket and shot up when I saw the name on the screen.

  “Hello?” I asked, voice soft and tight.

  “Hi there.” Gwen’s smooth voice came through the speaker. “That was quick. I thought you’d leave me on ring a while.”

  My face warmed and I coughed, caught off-guard. “Uh, no. Why would I do that?”

  “It’s what I’d do,” she answered simply.

  God, this woman.

  I leaned back on the couch and tried to remember how to talk like a normal person. “If that’s your strategy, you probably shouldn’t have called me a day after . . . well.”

  “After you ate me out so good I could barely walk.”

  This fucking woman.

  “Yeah, after that.”

  “‘That.’ You’re such a Girl Scout.” She laughed. I could hear the affection in her voice, and it warmed me all the way to my toes. “I was actually calling to see if you were free tonight.”

  My cheeks hurt from grinning. “Yeah?”

  “I was going to make you sweat it out—seriously, I had a whole three-day plan and everything—but some time opened up in my schedule unexpectedly, and well, I guess I could use it to catch up on Say Yes to the Dress, or I could see you again.”

  “So it was between me and a reality TV show about women being peer-pressured into expensive wedding dresses? I’m touched.”

  She laughed again, and I realized with a pang of something deep and terrifying that I could get really used to hearing that sound.

  “How does nine o’clock at The Rose sound?” she asked.

  A voice in the back of my head told me I shouldn’t seem too available, but I promptly plugged my ears to it. “Nine sounds great.”

  I anticipated a quip or a teasing Eager, eh? but all I heard in her voice was a smile. “Great. Maybe this time you can actually have a big girl drink?”

  I went to retort, but was cut off by a rising sound on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”

  The sound of voices flooded into the background, and Gwen groaned. “I’m at a fundraiser and I hate literally everyone here.”

  “You can’t hate everyone there.”

  “Everyone. Every last one. There’s a waiter here who I have never met before and I can say unequivocally and with absolute certainty that I hate him and everyone he has ever known and loved.”

  I laughed so hard I snorted. I would have felt embarrassed had she not giggled too, uncharacteristically sweet and high, and sent an army of agitated butterflies swarming in my chest.

  “You poor thi
ng,” I drawled.

  “I’m at a grand-a-head fundraiser with an unlimited wine bar. My life is so much harder than everyone else’s, I know.”

  There was something thrilling about this, this teasing banter with a beautiful woman over the phone. I was reminded of high school and my first girlfriend, Keiosha; of staying up late on the phone, giggling and talking about nothing, realizing that the power of flight laid in the tremor of a girl’s laugh. That kind of giddy naiveté where getting a laugh out of a girl made you feel like you were on top of the world.

  “I should let you go. I bet you have more elbows to rub and waiters to wish ill upon.”

  “Yeah.” Gwen paused, and I held my breath until she spoke again. “See you soon.”

  That one little phrase felt like so much promise to me that I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. “See you soon.”

  Five

  Jackie

  Given the weekend, The Rose was slightly busier than the last time I’d popped in for a drink. I sat at the table Gwen had found me at the last couple of times with a drink in hand. Rum and Coke, just to acknowledge her jab from earlier. I wondered what she would say when she saw it, what quip what follow the smallest twitch in her smile as she teased. My arms and chest flushed warm at the thought.

  It was around nine fifteen when she finally showed up. She looked as if she had come straight back from the fundraiser: sleek blue dress hugging her curves, hair a delicate swoop of curls, and her a cat-like smile flawlessly painted.

  She pulled up a seat and flashed an apologetic smile. “Sorry I’m late. The fundraiser ran a little long. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve been pregaming.”

  I grinned. “I was expecting nothing less.”

  She eyed my drink of choice. “Coke?”

  “Rum and Coke.”

  “Respectable.”

  She went to the bar to order herself a drink. I ran my fingers through the condensation on my glass as the nerves of the evening finally settled over me.

  We were on a date. Sort of. A second date? Maybe. I didn’t know if arguing and then fucking days later counted as a date. It wasn’t like I did this often.