heart of the team. It’s heady and humbling.
I spend time with my grandparents and run a few 5Ks with my pops. His knee is like new, he says.
“How’s everything with you?” he asks me one Sunday morning when I don’t have a game.
“Everything is great,” I tell him.
And mostly, that’s true.
At night, though, my mind sometimes wanders wistfully to Arizona, and then on to New York.
In the spring of my fourth season, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, I speak at an event at a San Francisco group of high schools, along with student athletes from across football, wrestling, lacrosse, field hockey, and volleyball disciplines. After the talk, I take them to the ballpark for a softball game.
A gal named Topaz tells me I’m her inspiration. “I’ve been following you since I was twelve. But I do like the Dragons better,” she says.
“I’ll convert you,” I promise.
“That’s the only kind of conversion I would consider.”
“I hear ya, girl,” I say, and we knock fists.
Later, I meet a wrestler named Nico, who tells me, “Wrestling is better, but I guess if I have to play softball with a pro, you’ll do.”
“Appreciate that.”
They post pics all over their social media accounts, and I do too. My sneaker sponsor shares some of the shots, and it’s awesome, the support the company gives.
The next night, Reese is in town for a long weekend before she returns to campus for college graduation.
Her closest friends from school join us for a night out at a club in the Mission district. Under the pulsing lights and techno music, the four of us dance like we did in college, back when I was finishing and they were starting. But soon, Tia peels away to bump hips with a tattooed Latino guy, and Layla finds a fair-skinned brunette to grind against.
It’s just Reese and me dancing when a cute dude lasers in on me from the bar. He’s dark-haired, all Ronen Rubinstein goodness, and he can’t take his eyes off me.
Reese darts her eyes in his direction. “Just go talk to him.”
“Nah, I’m with you, girl,” I say.
“It makes me happy to see you out there, meeting people.”
“I’ll talk to him, then, to make you happy,” I joke.
“Or maybe it’ll make you happy. I know you’re enjoying your single status,” she says with a wink.
I get why she’d have that impression—it’s the vibe I give off. But it’s not my after-hours truth. It’s not even close.
When Reese scurries to the ladies’ room, the hottie from the bar makes his way over and asks if I want to dance. For a song, we move together, legs touching at times, hands running down arms at others. But once the beat fades, I say thanks, and turn to the bar.
“Wait. Want to go somewhere?” he asks, a glint in his pretty eyes.
“No thanks.”
Without a second thought—or any regrets—I head to the bar to wait for Reese. She grins knowingly when she finds me. “I saw you dancing with the hottie.”
“He was all right.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And will you go home with him?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Nope.”
She parks her hands on her hips. “Is it because you’re not over him?”
Sucker punch.
From my best friend too.
Rolling my eyes, I shrug, but inside I’m thinking busted. “Let’s dance.”
I grab her arm, but she refuses to budge. “Not until you tell me the truth.”
I huff. “I believe I just did.”
“Do you miss him?”
“I’m not waiting for him, if that’s what you’re asking. That would be stupid. It’s over. We didn’t make a pact to meet in five years at the top of the Empire State Building. We didn’t promise to find our way back to each other. We broke up,” I say, voice tight, muscles tense.
“I know, Grant,” she says with a gentle squeeze. “It’s me. Your friend. Your bestie, okay? All I’m asking is if you miss him.”
Her blue eyes are so earnest, so caring. Just like her touch. “I miss the possibility of him,” I admit.
Her expression goes soft, and she throws both arms around me. “Maybe someday?”
“Maybe,” I say, my throat tightening, that dangerous emotion known as hope rising in me as I hug her back.
But when we return to the dance floor, I’m still determined to finish what I started when I took that flight out of New York after winning Rookie of the Year.
I’m ruthlessly determined to stop thinking about Declan Steele.
In the middle of the next season, Chance’s wife, Natasha, leaves him, and we all keep an eye out for