Beauty and the Baller

“That wasn’t your fault. It was a storm. And I’m not even close to being that sick. I’ve been worse off with the flu.”

I notice the tremble in his hands. “Inside, I know that—I do—but . . . I feel like I’m at a crossroads, you know, a big one, and I’m going to screw it up because I can’t be relied on. I can’t. I worked all my life to be the best; I came from nothing, and I attained what some people never do. The Heisman. An incredible career. A team who admired me. A girl I loved. It’s like my world was so perfect for those years that I never imagined anything bad would happen, and I let down my guard! I failed!” He heaves out a breath. “This week has been shit, and tonight, seeing you sick just brings back those feelings of inadequacy. Even with this town, I worry about disappointing them, about leaving my players. They think I’m this great coach and person, but what if I let them down too? They can’t imagine it, but what if I can’t get them that trophy? They want it so much, and they’ve put all this responsibility on me, and sometimes it feels tougher than playing for the Pythons. At least then, I depended on other people in the game, and I have other coaches, but it’s me, all me. These people love me; they’ve put me on a pedestal, and that terrifies me. Their expectations, the belief that I’m going to save them. I talk big and bolster them up—hell, I’m great at getting people to believe in themselves, but I don’t believe in myself! I’m not brave anymore! I lost it somewhere along the way, and I don’t know how to get it back. How fucked is that?” He jerks to a stop. “Jesus, you’re sick, and here I am, bugging you . . .”

My heart softens at his admission. “Ronan, no, let it out. It’s good for you. Speaking your truth puts it in the universe so you can conquer it later.”

He turns and looks at me. His eyes shut. “The things you say . . . I’ve missed you—”

I sigh, interrupting him. “Ronan, I’m here for you as a friend, but . . .”

“Let me finish.” He inhales a deep breath, then swallows. “Nova, that night in New York, when we met, I think I f—” He stops abruptly, his hands clenched as he stares at the floor.

I manage a smile, unsure of what he’s trying to say, as my stomach churns with more nausea. “It was a tumultuous experience for both of us. Can we put a pin in this?”

“Are you okay?” He rushes over to me.

“The quiche isn’t going to keep me down.”

He searches my face, then nods. “Okay. I’m sure you’re right.” He drops the lid on the toilet. “Get in and shower, Princess. I’ll sit here in case you need me.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m out. He stood outside the door while I dried off, then grabbed me an old NYU sleep shirt. My wet hair hangs around my face in a tangled mess as I walk to my vanity. I sit, and he brushes out my hair, then holds my arm as we walk to the bed. He whips back the covers on the left, and I slide inside. He tucks them around me.

He holds up the Art of War on my nightstand. “Are you reading it?”

“Don’t be weird about it.”

He gives me a half smile. “What’s your favorite part?”

“The part about musical notes and colors and tastes. How there’s only a handful of each, yet they each produce millions of sounds, hues, and flavors.”

“I know the one.”

“Of course you do. Your brain . . .” I mimic something exploding.

He smiles, then fiddles with a picture of me and Mama and Sabine on my nightstand. “You deserve all the wonderful things in the world, Nova. I’m not it.”

Our eyes cling. His words were soft, and I heard the ring of truth in them—that he believes. I don’t allow the sadness and disappointment I feel to surface. I push them down because I do deserve something awesome. And someday I’ll have it.

I pull my hand out of the covers and take his. “Hey. Here’s another quote I like, just for you. There’s a thousand battles and a thousand victories, and through it all, you must believe in yourself . . . and stuff like that. It’s not exact, but then you already know I’m not great at memorizing quotes.”

He squeezes my hand. “Funny.”

Sabine walks in the door. “Are you okay?” There’s an edge to her voice. “Mama went to bed and never woke up.”

Ah . . . I imagine after the flurry downstairs she’s had time to worry. I spread my arms wide. “Right as rain. You can sleep with me if you want.” She did for the first two weeks I was here.