Self-consciousness burns my face, and I shrug. “My whole childhood was there, and that community made it a good one.”
In the beat of silence after I finish, I glance up to find a slight smile on her face and warm eyes that meet mine easily.
“That’s cool,” she offers simply, and I’m glad she doesn’t make it a big deal even though it must be obvious it’s important to me. “So, you ready for the draft?”
I appreciate the shift of subject. It’s not likely I’ll go to Baltimore, and I don’t let many people know how much it would mean to me. “I am, but it’s all happening so fast.” A dry chuckle rattles in my throat. “The NBA was some distant fantasy when I was in the eighth grade. Now it’s right here, and unless something goes really wrong, it’s actually happening. I just hope . . .”
My words trail off, but my uncertainty remains. It’s not even about my ability to play at the next level. I know I’m prepared for that. It’s all that comes with it that I’m not sure I’m ready for.
“You’ll do great.” Her slim fingers close over my hand, gripping the glass. “You’ll be an amazing player.”
Just that light pressure, just seeing her hand with mine, feels good. Something about the sight levels the unevenness I’ve felt all day and unlocks words I haven’t said to anyone.
“I want to be more than just a player. I want to use my degree. I want a business. I want a family.” It feels like a confession. “To be a good husband. A good father. This world I’m entering in a few months, I’ve seen it devour guys. We work toward this all our lives, and an injury, age, a bad trade, whatever—can end it overnight. If the game has eaten up your priorities, turned you into someone you never wanted to be, what’s the point?” I laugh self-consciously. “I probably sound—”
“You sound too good to be true,” she interrupts, her hand still resting on mine. “Guys in your position, the night before the big game, right on the edge of the draft—these aren’t things most of them are thinking about.”
She props her chin in the palm of her free hand, a slow smile working its way to her mouth. “You’re special.” She bites her lip, lifting her hand away from my fingers, dropping her eyes to the bar top scarred by a million glasses and a million moments before ours. “I’m glad I met you.”
That sounds suspiciously like the beginning of goodbye. Like she’s ready to close the door on this surreal chapter.
I can’t let that happen. A night like this, a connection like this—it’s singular. After tomorrow’s game, my future will literally be a little ball bouncing around in the NBA Draft Lottery. I may end up playing for a team I don’t like, living in a place I won’t get to choose.
But tonight, I have control. I have choices, and I choose her. To get to know her. To woo her. To earn her trust. All I need is time.
But time seems to be the one thing we don’t have.
“Closing.” The bartender drags our empty glasses toward him and wipes down the surface in front of us. “You ain’t gotta go home, but you gotta get out of here.”
I hadn’t noticed the bar emptying around us, but we’re nearly the last ones left.
“Good luck tomorrow, West,” the bartender says, sliding two checks across the freshly-wiped bar.
“Thanks.” I stand and snatch both of them before she can even look at hers.
“Give me that.” She lunges toward me, but I hold the check over my head, completely out of her reach.