Page 1 of Your Secret to Keep

Prologue

Brooks

March

Want to know a secret? I don’t think I’ll ever love anything, or anyone, as much as a basketball court. It’s my first true love; it’s never fucked me over or fucked me up. Even after the painful losses—half-court shots and lucky bounces that crack your heart in two—the court still welcomed me back. Challenged me. To play. To practice. To pour myself into it.

All I need is basketball.

Maybe it’s the paparazzi reminding me that my too-recent-ex-girlfriend is already living with another NBA player? I love how they scream that shit when I’m walking into the stadium. Or maybe it’s the rush of the win streak? Either way, it doesn’t matter. Tonight, it’s the truth.

The Jags have won ten straight games and it’s looking like the eleventh is only a quarter away. It's March in the NBA—aka, get your shit together or watch the playoffs from the couch. There’s only a month left of the regular season and I’m here to make sure it’s not the end formyfucking team.

The whistle blows and we’re into the fourth quarter. I create some space, exactly where I know my point guard is going to put the ball—I smirk as soon as it hits my hands. I look left just as I pass the ball right, confusing my defender for a split second—only long enough to get the ball off my fingers. Jalen snags it, just like Coach planned. Hedribbles once, using the step to move closer to the corner, and puts up a three-point shot.

He looks at me and fucking winks as he jogs back up the court, the ball still hanging in the air. Cocky bastard. I’ll make fun of him for that later. But when the ball swishes through the net, the crowd erupts, loudly enough I can feel the vibrations on the court—I can’t help but smile.

Jalen pounds his chest, soaking it in but not missing a beat on the defensive play. He swipes at the ball, poking it away and cataloging his third steal of the night. I sprint, eyes on the court, moving as fast as I can to get to the basket. I turn just in time to catch the pass, dribble it a single time, and dunk it.

Energy zips through the air like something you can reach out and grab on to. It’s everywhere. It hangs over the court then weaves through the players—everyone can feel it. I can almost fucking taste it. My heart thuds heavily but I feel light on my feet, as if I’m floating, while teammates offer high fives and chest bumps.

This is it. Nothing gets better than this.

The opposing team is trying to get the game under control but it’s not working. We’re leading by thirteen in the fourth quarter. They inch closer to closing the gap, but then the ball is hot in our hands, and we can’t miss.

I jog backwards as they try to bring it up the floor. The player in front of me is desperately looking for the play to develop, needing to get the ball past me and to the right side of the court. It’s a last second decision, but I want to go for the jugular. Right as the opposing player is trying to bring it past half-court, I pivot at the last possible second, stepping forward and swiping at the ball.

I know it’s a stretch, me stealing the ball this way, but fuck if I’m not going to try. In a split second, it feels like time stalls. When the tip of asingle finger touches the ball, poking it away, I put my head down and go to run.

Pop.

Silence hits me like a suckerpunch. The cheers from the crowd and yelling from my teammates are nowhere to be found. I hear nothing besides the echo of the pop that reverberates through my body. Instead of running forward, I awkwardly fall and roll to my back, grabbing for my knee.

Non-contact. Pop. Tingling.

My heart splinters on the basketball court. I’m cracking in two as the trainer runs over to me. When Coach leans down, his hand pressed to my shoulder, his eyes lock on mine and I don’t need a test to confirm what I already know.

I just tore my ACL.

Three weeks later

The room is dark. Too dark. Or maybe it’s just enough? Whatever I was binging on Netflix ended an hour ago and my TV automatically turned off. The best part of the darkness is how it doesn’t bounce off my metal brace. The reminder of everything falling apart at a record pace.

I’m not cleared for air travel, which means my team is a thousand miles away for a game without me. Not that I’d go anyway. A few days after surgery, when the stitches were still fresh and the bruising still purple, I went to the arena. As I crutched by the court, my body wouldn’t let meget any closer. Like we were the same side of a magnet, the push had me trying to get as far as away as I could.

I was walking to Coach’s office when I lost my battle with the push. Stopping in my tracks, my hand on my chest, I looked for air that wasn’t there—begged for a tiny fucking breath to get me to the next second. It was like the universe was playing with me, giving me a fraction of the oxygen I desperately tried to find, only to point out how much I needed it. Like it was in my grasp, but I couldn’t reach further. A cruel fucking game.

If it hadn’t been for one of the assistant coaches, I would’ve fallen onto the court, most likely doing more damage to my knee or a different body part. Instead, my coach watched me struggle and helped me sit down. He tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t hear him. There was nothing besides the echoes from the life-altering pop on that fateful day. It crawled through my body, making its presence known in every fucking cell.

I never did make it to Coach’s office. He came to my place that night, with a physical therapist specializing in injury recovery and a voice soft enough to know I looked like shit.

I could barely look at Coach then. The way I can barely look at myself now.

People still send flowers, food, surprise packages. They call and text. Teammates and friends in the league check in on me, reiterating how this isn’t the end—there’s a chance I’ll come back even better. Some of them knock on the door but I don’t answer. No matter what they say or do, it still feels like I lost the one thing that made me.

All I had was basketball.

Chapter 1

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