Coach's Daughter
The arena is packed to the gills, fans wanting to see the new point guard in action. It’s loud and bright. My skull is a prison for an incessant buzzing sound that has only gotten louder over the last eight days. Pain beats in all areas of my body. My head, chest, stomach. I’m passed the ball during warm-ups and it feels like a foreign object in my hands. I wish I was touching her skin. I wish I’d come inside of her.
How did I stop myself?
How did I pull out of that tight perfection?
I’m still not sure. I just couldn’t allow myself to become an easy hookup to her, because, Jesus, that would end me. For good. I hoped that by leaving that one thing undone, she might be tempted to find her way home. What else do I have to work with? None of the gifts I’ve sent have worked. None of my apologies have been good enough. I’m running out of ideas and I’m scared about what I’ll do when my options are gone. How many times have I dreamed of kicking down the door of her apartment, throwing her over my shoulder, bringing her home and locking her up?
Too many times to count.
And it is beginning to look like my only viable choice.
She’ll hate me. But at least she’ll be with me.
This distance is torture. Not hearing her voice is driving me insane.
I go through the motions of a lay-up, passing off the ball to the next player in line. Some fans call my name from the sidelines and I glance over, planning to give them a perfunctory wave—and that’s when I see her.
Greta.
On the sidelines by herself, watching me with…is that affection in her eyes?
Do I even have the audacity to hope?
I stop dead in my tracks, my heart booming deafeningly in my ears. “Greta?”
A smile spreads across her mouth, her eyes luminous. And when she stands up, I notice for the first time what she’s wearing. It’s an LA jersey. I know before she even turns around that my name is on the back and Christ, I go to her, weaving through photographers and a sideline reporter, the buzzing sound growing dimmer in my head the closer I get to my girl. Please don’t let her be a mirage. A figment of my imagination after eight nights without sleep.
But no.
She’s real.
When I reach Greta and she opens her arms, I scoop her up and hold her, breathing like I’ve just run eighteen miles, my pulse speeding fast enough to make me dizzy. Oh God, she feels so perfect against me. My missing piece. “Have you come back to me, angel?”
Please please please.
“Yes,” she whispers into my neck.
Relief floods me, so heavy I almost drop to a kneel. “You’re wearing my jersey. Does that mean I won the bet? I made you love basketball?”
“No.” She pulls back and looks me in the eye—and I can see our future there, endless and rich. “It means you made me love you, Mr. Greta Welding.”
My heart soars up into my throat.
This girl…despite everything…loves me.
With wonder, disbelief and gratitude, I drop my mouth to hers and kiss her until she’s writhing against me, the crowd going wild around us. “I love you so much,” I rasp at her lips, just as the buzzer sounds. “Build a life with me. Starting now. Be my life, Greta.”
“Be mine, too,” she breathes, dragging her fingers through my hair. “I want that more than anything.”
“I was yours from the first second.”
The buzzer blares again and the audience begins to chant my name, making Greta giggle and shove me playfully toward the bench. “Go conquer the court, Silent Assassin. You’ll conquer me afterward.”
And I do.
Over and over again.
Forever.
Epilogue
Ten Years Later
Greta
Carrying my box full of medical supplies, I walk into the gym only to find a familiar sight. My husband trying to teach a bunch of second graders how to play basketball while our daughter hangs from his neck, our other daughter listening to him lecture with the deep concentration she inherited from Eric. Our girls couldn’t be more different from each other, one serious about honing her basketball skills, the other one just in it for the socializing and snacks.
His voice is like coming home after a long journey, even though I’ve only been gone a couple of hours. I’ve been back at the house working on the website for our youth basketball program, founded by me and Eric when he retired from the league three years ago. After winning four championship titles for the city of LA, his only wish was to spend more time with me and his girls, so he got to work, creating the number one girls’ basketball program in the state.
I’m the on-site medical trainer, splitting my time between practice, games and my work at a local sports rehab clinic, so I get the best of both worlds, healing world-class athletes and bandaging boo-boos.