Page 2 of Your Secret to Keep

Brooks

October

“I hope your pillow is warm and clammy for the rest of time—that's how terrible this drink is.” I try not to gag as the taste of peanut butter whiskey lingers on my tongue.

The drink, which I think is supposed to be the equivalent of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, is borderline offensive. I chug my water, trying to rinse my mouth of the syrupy sweet aftertaste.

“It’s not that bad!” Clay protests, taking a sip of the drink, swishing it around his mouth, and to my horror, swallowing it.

I push my empty water glass forward, giving him room to refill it. To be fair, it’s the first dud of the bunch when it comes to what he’s tried out on me tonight. Clay is a longtime friend and bartender at Oasis, an almost-too-hipster bar downtown. Usually, the drinks he puts in front of me are delicious.

Not tonight.

“Peanut butter whiskey is having a moment,” he insists, talking with his hands to emphasize his point.

Moment or not, it’s disgusting. I don’t need peanut butter alcoholic beverages.

Thursday night energy, the weekend in everyone’s grasp, has people filtering in for dinner and drinks. I’m wearing a baseball cap, sitting at the edge of the bar on a stool which barely looks like it’s meant for a guest.

That’s the point. I don’t want to be seen.

Tonight, I want to be Brooks Pittman, friend of the bartender—not Brooks Pittman, NBA player recovering from an ACL injury.

Even on my good days, I’m plagued with thoughts of how many NBA players don’t come back from an injury like this... not really. The worst part is how I’ve supposedly done this in seven months, basically record time when it comes to an ACL recovery—most athletes need nine to twelve. Technically, Iamrecovered. According to my team doctors and physical therapists, I should have full strength, mobility, and range of motion and explosiveness on the court. I hear them, but I’m not sure if I believe them.

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Clay says. “I’ve made way worse drinks than this one.” He dumps the rest of the cocktail in the bar sink.

I take another swig of water, still trying to lose the taste and reply, “Fucking doubtful.”

A clicking sound pulls my mind from the terrible drink and over to a woman about to sit a few barstools away. Her hair falls on her shoulders like rays of sunlight, quite the contrast against a black leather jacket. With high cheekbones and pale pink lips, she’s gorgeous, but it’s her legs which make my eyes go wide. Her golden and smooth skin pull my eyes from where her dress ends all the way to her high-heeled shoes. There’s quite a bit to take in; I’m guessing she’s almost six foot tall in the heels and maybe 5’9’’ without. A forest green dress hugs her body, showing the curves of her hips and stopping mid-thigh, while the muscles flex as she gets situated.

She turns, catches my eyes, and offers a polite smile before running her hands through her hair, like she’s situating the loose curls. For the next few minutes, she alternates between looking at the door and stretching her neck from side to side. Clearly, she’s waiting for someone.

Clay lets her gets comfortable before approaching and asking what she’d like to drink.

“Can you surprise me? Nothing too sweet, but everything else is fair game,” she answers while shaking out her hands.

He reaches for a glass and asks, “What are your thoughts on peanut butter?”

Before she has a chance to respond, I interrupt. “No. Just say no. Trust me.”

Her face softens with amusement, and I can feel the blood rush to my face. I’m not one to interject myself into other people’s business, but no one needs to be exposed to whatever cocktail Clay is trying to get on the menu.

“Nothing too sweet and no peanut butter.” Her voice is light as Clay gives me a look that screams, “Stay out of it.”

A few minutes later, mystery woman has a drink in front of her—something with bubbly wine, judging by the glass—and a man sits next to her. He’s wearing a Tom Ford suit, one my stylist sent me as a pre-game outfit option, and suede loafers. I roll my eyes when I realize his hair is prepared to withstand wind gusts up to 45 MPH—the gel is excessive. I try not to stare, but out of the corner of my eye I see his face twist—not in a good way—when she stands to greet him. I don’t know what this man’s issue is. She’s a fucking smoke show.

He orders a scotch on the rocks with a splash of water, and I can feel Clay about to stroke out. This particular bottle of scotch runs about $4000 each and is not meant to be tampered with. He pours the scotch over ice, his face grimacing as he adds the water, and says something like, “It’s your funeral,” when he serves it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Jalen

I'm so excited for you to get back on the court

this is our year

i can feel it

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