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How was the flight?
Eli:
Uneventful. Which is how I like them. Why are you still up?
Nolan:
Wanted to make sure you got in okay.
The three dots that indicated Eli was typing appeared. Then disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared.
Fuck. Nolan had revealed too much, hadn’t he?
His phone rang, Eli’s name on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Can I come over?” Eli asked, sounding like a fraction of his usual chipper self.
The request stunned Nolan for a second too long, judging by how quickly Eli said, “Never mind. Forget I asked. It’s late and—”
“No,” Nolan cut in. “I mean, yes. Of course. Come over.”
“Yeah?” The smile was evident in Eli’s voice. “’Kay. We’re disembarking now and I’ve got my carry-on with me. They tried to voluntell me to check it since apparently they didn’t have enough room in the overhead bins for everyone’s bags, but I said, Heck no. Do you know who I am?”
Nolan laughed. “You did not say that.”
“Obviously not. I’m not an asshole. I just walked away and pretended I couldn’t hear them.”
“I’m not sure that’s any better.”
Eli grunted in response. There was the sound of someone saying thank you and Eli’s low “Yeah, no problem,” before he was back. “I’m gonna go. It’s chaos. See you in half an hour or so.”
“Are you hungry?” Nolan asked. “Do you want me to make you something?”
“God, yes, I’m starving. But honestly, a bowl of cereal is fine. I’ll text you when I’m in a cab.”
With that, he hung up, leaving Nolan feeling like a tool for not offering to pick him up. Too late now though. Eli would be in a taxi before Nolan arrived at the airport, even if he left now.
He inventoried the contents of his fridge, freezer, and pantry. A bowl of cereal wouldn’t cut it after a long flight, but it was also late enough that Eli probably wouldn’t want anything heavy. He got out ingredients for a veggie omelet and also peeled and sliced a carrot into sticks. If Eli was anything like Nolan, he’d sustained himself with snacks or fast food or whatever he could grab quickly, and he was desperately craving a vegetable. Nolan also set aside a couple of thick slices of sourdough bread that he’d purchased at a local bakery. He’d toast them when Eli arrived.
While he sliced and diced veggies, he pressed Play on DeShawn James’ interview recording.
“Who do you go to when you have a problem?”
“My mom.”
Nolan laughed—on the recording and in real life. Then immediately felt bad—during the interview and now. It was a realistic response. He’d only laughed because it’d surprised him.
“Fair enough,” Nolan said on the recording. “Let’s switch tactics. You’re the youngest and also one of the newest guys on the team, only on your second season. What was it like for you, adjusting to the team culture?”
When Nolan had interviewed him, DeShawn had shrugged at the question. “Intimidating. My old team was very much the keep-your-head-down, do-as-you’re-told, don’t-talk-back, and for the love of god, don’t-have-an-opinion kind of team. Going from that to this was—and still is—jarring. The Trailblazers’ culture is great in theory, but for people like me who prefer to stay on the sidelines and to think before they speak . . . it’s a lot.”
Pausing his chopping, Nolan rewound the clip a few seconds.
“ . . . but for people like me who prefer to stay on the sidelines and to think before they speak . . . it’s a lot.”
He tapped the Pause button, his heart rate speeding up.
