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I look up, sighing. “No.”
“And if I were to acquire superpowers, what would they be?”
“The ability to wear high heels while not actually arching your foot,” I answer by rote.
She taps her red flats against the floor, making her point. “Exactly.”
Amira called me last week after yoga to tell me she was meeting with the Golden State Foxes GM right after the All-Star break, when we head out for our next away stretch. She insists she’s seeing him to discuss a renewal for me.
I’ll believe that when I see the papers.
It’s not that I doubt her. But I’ve been on edge with the trade deadline approaching in a month. The rumors are rampant about me in sports media. And rumors often become facts. Like, say, all the things I heard my parents whisper about behind closed doors when I was younger. Those whispers came true—my brother’s not here anymore.
Amira pushes my empty cup toward me, drained of English Breakfast. “Let’s get you some more tea. You’re not drinking enough tea. Did you try the Earl Grey with bergamot I sent you last week? The shop told me it was the best,” she says in her rapid-fire, mile-a-minute tone. Amira’s from the Dominican Republic but was raised in New York, and while she doesn’t have an accent from either place, she does speak with the speed of the East Coast.
“It was great. I’m addicted to it,” I say, grateful for her little agent gifts. Admittedly, the tea was a good distraction from my incessant thoughts.
Briefly, she stares at the ceiling, tapping her chin, two chunky gold bracelets jangling up and down her dark brown skin. “But what is bergamot?”
“I think it’s orange?”
She lifts her phone to her mouth. “Hey, Google, what is bergamot?”
“Would you like me to play a Rick James song?” the phone asks in a robotic voice.
I laugh.
She shakes her head. “This is why AI has a ways to go.” Then concern flickers across her shrewd eyes. “Wait. I’m all wrong. Robots are smart. This is subliminal stuff. I wouldn’t mind hearing some Rick James later.”
I laugh more, and for the first time since we sat down, I feel a bit less tense. It’s nice not to talk shop for a moment.
“Bergamot aside,” she says, gentling her tone, “you need to try to stop worrying. What have I told you? You can’t control trades or the trade rumor mill.”
“But have you met my anxiety?” It’s said self-deprecatingly, though Amira knows it’s true.
She pats my hand in a maternal sort of way. “I know. But have you met me? Let me handle the trade worries, contracts, and sponsorships. You handle the stick.”
“I will but…” I drag my hands through my hair, messing it up, tension seeping back into my bones as I think about the future. It’s a gift to be able to play at the highest level. Hell, it’s a gift to be able to use your body at all. “I want to have a great year. Last year I was out for nearly a month with an injury. The year before with my old team went to the dogs. I can’t let any of that happen again.”
“I know. Your old team. The ankle. Your ex. But you just keep playing the best you can.”
“That’s always the goal.”
“And you are terrifically obsessive about it,” she says, knowing me too well.
“So don’t get distracted by romance?” I add because that guideline has helped this season. I’ve stayed far away from the scourge known as love.
She arches a brow, then gently chides me with, “I didn’t say that. But your ex sure did a number on you.”
“Maintaining multiple profiles on a dating site and shagging other men had an impact,” I say dryly.
“Yes, but you’re also hard on yourself. Maybe you want to do something about that? Meditation, mindfulness—maybe see a therapist about anxiety. There are some great psychologists who specialize in sports. The team has one.”
I shudder.
“What’s that for?”
I lean closer, like that’ll drive my point home. “I want to stay with the team. I don’t want to let on I’m a fucking mess about staying with them.”
