Page 32 of Your Secret to Keep

I take a breath, slow and steady. I need to tell Jalen. One, he’ll never quit asking. Two, I’m going to need his advice at some point. After Lia left last night, my nerves kept me awake much later than fucking appropriate. I haven’t done this in so long. Whatever happened with Rebecca was years ago at this point and that was a complete disaster. I haven’t dated someone in longer than I’d like to admit.

“Fine, fine. I trust you.” I push my hands through my hair and they land behind my neck, pulling. “It’s Lia and me. We’re dating. But it’s a secret.”

Jalen claps his hands—it catches me off guard and I flinch—and spins in a circle. “Fuck yes! I knew it. I KNEW IT. Tell me she’s the reason you bailed last night.” He has his hands on his knees, looking at me.

“Yes. She came over for dinner,” I answer quietly, nervously looking around to double check it’s still just us.

“Man, this is something else. You basically stumble on this gorgeous woman in the wild, and then she gets hired but her main project is hanging with you. Should be easy to keep it low-key, to be honest,” he says. “You already have an excuse as to why you’d be together!”

Damn. I didn’t even think of it that way. Relief spreads through my chest—telling Jalen is already paying off.

“You know I’ll keep all your secrets.” Jalen leads us from the locker room into the hallway. “She seems cool.”

He’s giving me an opening, a place to share, but it’s not one I think I’m ready for. Jalen hops onto the court, his shoes squeaking, and it brings the feeling of familiarity—a routine that’s part of my chemical makeup—as I take a ball off the rack.

“She’s definitely cool,” I agree, squeezing the ball between my hands.

I’m thankful it’s only the two of us, at least for now. Dribbling, I run up and down the court, all ninety-four feet, over and over as my mind replays last night with Lia. People have come and gone my whole life, but the basketball court has never left me. Maybe that’s why I do my best thinking here.

I knock on the door, even though Chris says I can just come in—it still doesn’t feel right.

“Brooks! So good to see you,” Mack, technically my stepmom, swings open the door, wearing the same big smile I’m used to seeing. “Riley’s inside.”

When I step in, the warmth wraps around me, a contrast to the snow flurrying outside. It also smells incredible, surely due to a hell of a spread. Pre-game plays on a massive TV in the living room, showing flashes of the Upstate Cosmos warming up. They have an away game today, otherwise I would’ve been able to make this one. Mack and Chris don’t go to many games—they get too nervous watching Zack in person, even though he’s a long snapper and chances of him suffering a serious injury are low.

Riley hops off a bar stool in the kitchen, wearing a blue Cosmos jersey, and runs over to me. “Thank god! My mom made enough food for at least an entire starting lineup.” She wraps me in a hug, which is a common occurrence at the Hayes household.

She leads me to the kitchen island, where there’s a charcuterie board, chicken wings, fries, a few different types of dip, and a bowl of Pop Rocks—Zack’s favorite candy and a sort of good luck charm for the family. No matter what, we’re all supposed to eat Pop Rocks on game day.

I know if I peek in the pantry, I’ll find Sour Patch Kids, my go-to candy. They do the same thing when I play; it might seem small, but it makes me feel like I’m part of the crew.

“It smells great in here,” I say, sitting down next to Riley.

“Ah, Chris has been smoking wings all day. He’s finishing them on the grill,” Mack answers while she stirs a pot on the stove. “I’ve got the beer cheese dip almost ready.”

Riley bumps my shoulder with her and gives me a side-eye look. “Hope you haven’t eaten in three days and are that hungry,” she jokes.

The door to the patio swings open and Chris walks in with a plate full of saucy chicken wings. I can smell the spice from here.

“You made it! Glad you could come,” he booms as he sets down the plate and offers up a cold handshake. We awkwardly stand in front of each other, Chris with his hands on his hips and me sitting back down.

These are good people, but I’d be lying if I said connecting with my dad has been easy. It’s like we don’t know what to say to each other. I guess that’s to be expected considering our relationship is still new and there isn’t a roadmap on how to do this.

When I signed my latest contract extension, I bought my mom a new house. While I was helping her move, I found a box in her attic, one that had letters addressed to Chris telling him about me—how I was his son.Turns out, they had a brief fling while he and Mack were on a break, and my mom never told him she was pregnant. A wild string of events which were only made wilder when I stumbled upon Zack in Mexico. I was there for an NBA game, and we ended up crossing paths.

Everyone has been accepting, kind and open. But sometimes it feels like I fell into something I wasn’t supposed to have. It was always me and my mom against the world. Sometimes, it feels like I’m cheating; like I’m not supposed to have these things.

“You were great the other night. Gotta feel good to be back,” Riley compliments me, doing her best to soothe the awkward silence everyone in the room must feel.

“Thanks. The team’s been solid. Fun start.”

“You know what, I appreciate that about you. When Zack threw that touchdown pass in the Super Bowl, I knew then and there we’d hear about it for the rest of time. You’re all Mr. Cool.” She flicks her hair off her shoulder.

“I mean, if I hit a game winner that wins the Jags a championship, I think I’ll like to bring it up.” I laugh and shrug my shoulders, knowing my energy and Zack’s are similar but not the same. Zack is the kind of guy who could bring up that pass every other day, but you wouldn’t find it in yourself to be annoyed with him.

“Maybe this year?” Riley asks, smiling at me with a shoulder shrug.

Probably not.The voice in my head is quick to respond. Sometimes it’s hard for me to accept that things like this could happen to me. As if everyone else is meant to win a championship, but not me. Maybe I like to keep expectations low, especially because I feel like I’ve already lucked out? I wanted to play in the NBA, but I can’t believe it’s actually my job—maybe I’ve used up all my good luck or whatever the hell helped get me here.

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