Page 18 of Your Secret to Keep

I nod my head, a weak attempt to say I’m fine while I look past her to the court.

It’s a soft touch, her fingers on my forearm for only a second, that has my eyes snapping to hers. “Brooks, what’s wrong?” Lia presses.

The words are simple, straight forward. I’m surprised by how my body leans forward, wishing her hands were still touching me. I want to tell her everything. It feels like she could make this better.

“My knee feels weird.” I look down, lifting my knee to my chest. If I look at her while I share this, I’m afraid I’ll get weirdly emotional. “Checked with the trainers. They say it’s normal. Fatigue.”

I can’t believe those words come out of my mouth. While I’m trying to think of how I can take it back, Lia shakes her head and moves in closer.

“I can’t imagine playing after an injury like that.” She frowns slightly, her eyes on mine. “I’m sure it all feels kind of weird.”

I glance for a millisecond, and her face is nothing but kindness and caring. For fuck’s sake, she’s someone I could melt into.

“Just nervous. It’s like, even though everyone says it’s fine, it’s still hard to believe.” I talk so fast that I run out of breath and suck in air at the end of my sentence.

“The yoga teacher in me wants to remind you to breathe,” Lia says calmly, taking a deep breath herself which inherently makes me want to copy her.

We breathe in. And out.

She crosses her arms, looks around to see if anyone is paying attention, then leans in closer. “Listen, you know your body best. Don’t overdoit.”

Lia talks in a way that makes you want to pay attention. It’s comforting and the right amount of stern.

“You got it.” I try to sound convincing—for her and for myself.

I’ve never had a problem telling Coach if I needed to sit. Tonight’s game won’t be any different—I know that.

“I say that from the part of me loving my new job where the whole thing kind of revolves around you, but more so from the Jags fan who’s been following this franchise since I can remember.” Her words are light and dusted with sarcasm, causing her to smile.

It’s like a chain reaction and her words hit me, lifting some of the heavy from my shoulders piece by piece.

“Hey, could you not post my mini freak out when you asked me a very simple question and I couldn’t use words?” I joke.

Lia tilts her head, her blonde hair cascading in front of her in waves. “I would never do that.” Her words are slow, meticulous, hitting every letter. “You don’t ever need to ask me to keep moments like this between us. I’m on your side.” She presses a hand to her chest.

She stands next to me, opening the camera’s playback. When the video starts playing on the tiny digital screen, she deletes it—no questions asked.

And I believe her.

Lia’s on my side.

Chapter 12

Lia

TheJagspullouta win at home in overtime, and I love how this place feels. Every staff member has a grin plastered on their face, the fans are ecstatic, and it’s like the building has a heavy happiness seeping out of the walls.

I love it. More than I thought I could.

I’ve been watching basketball my entire life. My dad would turn on the Jags, put on his ratty shirt—the only Jags merch I think he owned—and we’d sit in front of our tiny TV, lamenting over a team we wanted to win but rarely ever did.

My dad taught me the purpose of each player, basic offensive and defensive plays, and the different types of fouls. It was always our thing. Mom would move around us; never upset she wasn’t included but in awe that we had such a connection.

When Wes was old enough, he slipped into the living room and wore his own Jags shirt, one he got for a birthday but was quickly growing out of. Game days have always held a special place for me.

After my parents died, game days became the one thing Wes and I kept close. We lived with an aunt and uncle who did their best, but it was barely enough most days. They never had enough money and were always scraping pennies together to make ends meet. I quickly learned how to take care of both Wes and myself, much sooner than anyone should be asked to do. I’d find odd jobs around the neighborhood:cutting grass, raking leaves, pulling weeds, walking dogs, or any other task they’d let me try.

I had a small music box that was my mom’s, and I’d put the dollar bills, and sometimes coins, I’d earned in there. When Wes crawled into my bed in the middle of the night, he’d tell me how he was still hungry or needed something for school. That’s when I’d dip into the box, a pink ballerina spinning delicately as I cranked the handle on the bottom.

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