Page 3 of Your Secret to Keep

I swallow past the lump in my throat as sweat dots my forehead. The season started a week ago, but I’ll make my debut in two days. Whenever I imagine stepping back on the court or checking into a game, all I can think of is the night I tore my damn ACL. My nightmares are montages of the pop I heard and felt. The pop that threw me into a dark depressive hole—one I’m trying to stay far away from.

My stomach flips from the anxious walk down memory lane. I try to switch my train of thought, but it’s no use. I think about the hours between now and when I’ll be back on the court in my purple and gray Jaguar jersey. How can I be so terrified of the thing I love? The thing I was devastated to lose?

Honestly, it feels like the injury was due. Like things had been going too well for too long? My team was kicking ass every night, but more importantly, we were having a blast. The game almost felt too easy at times. Maybe this was how the universe puts me back in my place?

I thought the drinks would help with the anxiety, but Clay had other plans—horrible plans.

“What did you just say?” The mystery woman’s voice grabs my attention. I turn to find her looking at the guy next to her, but she’s tilting her head.

“I’m sure you’re nice and all, but you don’t look anything like your pictures. And don’t you think the heels are a bit much? You’re clearly tall enough without them.” His voice is loud enough to try and get a reaction from those around them.

Holy shit.

She scoffs and looks down at her drink before pressing her lips together.

“If you want to talk dating profiles, I think you left your crippling small dick energy from your bio,Randall.” Her voice scrapes over each of the letters in his name—sarcastic and pointed.

Clay lets out a slow whistle and a high top near the bar lets out a laugh. It’s not that we’re eavesdropping, it’s just impossible not to listen.

“Wouldn’t you like to know about my dick?” the guy snaps, standing from the bar stool, clearly trying to get under her skin.

“I’m sure it’s a real short story.” She uses her hand for emphasis, with only an inch in between her thumb and forefinger. “Wouldn’t even count towards my reading goal for the year.” She turns back to face Clay and beams when she hears the laughs from around her.

I quietly laugh because that was fucking gold. She seems annoyed but pretty unbothered. The guy puts three crisp $100 bills on the bar, his hand smacking the surface loudly. “I’m surprised you even know how to read,” he spits, and then he utters something that sounds very much like “dumb bitch.”

I’m out of my stool and in front of him in just a few strides. His eyes go wide as he takes me in, and I can tell from his expression he knows who I am.

I tip my head towards the door. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“You’re Brooks—”

“Sick of your shit? Yes. Go.” I keep my voice level, flat, and to the point.

The guy says nothing as he turns on his heel and heads for the door. Some of the guests clap and cheer as he exits the bar. I catch a look from Clay, one that asks, “What the fuck are you doing?” but I choose to leave him wondering.

“Lia, your table’s ready,” the hostess calls, not realizing the other half of the date just got laughed out of the place.

“Ugh, actually, I don’t think I need the table anymore.” Lia’s voice is disappointed, low, and like a punch to the gut. She touches the elbow of her jacket, rubbing the spot over and over.

Naturally, I do something ridiculous. I lean my arms on the bar next to her and ask, “Want to have dinner with me?”

Chapter 2

Lia

DidIpinchtheinside of my arm to make sure I was indeed awake when Brooks Pittman casually gave me a drink recommendation? Yes. Did I think I was seeing things when one of my favorite NBA players appeared to be sitting at the same bar I was? Also, yes.

Brooks Pittman waits for me to answer. Do I want to have dinner with him? Absolutely. One hundred percent yes. I press my lips together, giving myself a sliver of space to decide and not make a complete ass of myself.

“You want to have dinner with me?” I ask, trying to sound like I’ve said these words before.

“Yes. Come on.” He reaches his hand for mine.

I blink slowly, afraid to move because this doesn’t feel real. I’m worried I’ll do something to jostle myself awake and into the real world, out of the dream I must be having.

I gently put my hand in his and he squeezes it, which pulls the breath right from my lungs. I look from our hands to Brooks, and he smirks. Maybe I’ve had so many horrific dating interactions I've built up enough karma to have something like this happen? Something amazing.

The hostess leads us to our table, and I try to act like this is normal and not a fantasy I’ve dreamt of. A jolt hits me when I think about texting Shelbie. She has no idea who Brooks Pittman is—she’s not a big sports person—but she’ll scream when she hears about my comeback to thatdating app disaster before casually going on a date with an NBA player, in true best friend fashion.

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