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It’s not much: the court was laid on the same ground where the old horseshoe rings were once installed, and like everything in the White House, it’s smaller than you expect. The paint is faded, and the pavement blurs into dirt inches from the lines.
Some presidents love to play. It’s a private space, and you can pretend you’re somewhere other than the White House while you’re dribbling a ball on a run toward the basket. At least one president held his daily debriefs there. Most of the time, those debriefs turned into pickup games, and the president would haul anyone who was nearby onto the court to round out the teams. Try and ask a Secret Service agent to press the president. He can charge all day long.
Brennan isn’t a basketball player, which means the court is up for grabs for the West Wing staff and the Secret Service. Henry isn’t, either, but Nuñez and Sheridan are, and they organize three-on-three half-court games almost every night of the week.
After New York, I stayed away. I am a whirlpool who sucks the life and joy out of anyone around.
But Sheridan kept inviting me, and eventually, I relented. Nothing was magically cured, but for an hour, at least, there was something beyond my private misery and clawing despair.
I’ve kept going to the games. Even subbed in once or twice. Sheridan is a relentless player, always driving, never stopping for a break or a breath. He’s good, especially at the line, where he can lob a fadeaway jumper through the center of the basket. He seems to both lose and find himself when he plays.
So I know who I’m going to find on the half-court.
Sure enough, there he is. Sheridan is backlit by the sodium lamp overlooking the court, the long lines of his body stretched full out as he jumps at the top of the key and bounces the ball off the center of the backboard and through the hoop. I hear the swish of the net like a whisper.
“Nice shot.”
He spins. His shock makes him miss the rebound, and he has to jog for the ball. His cheeks are pink, and he alternates dribbles with lingering looks my way as I loiter on the edge of the court.
“One-on-one?” He bounce-passes to me. I catch the ball and dribble slowly, hand to hand. He must have come out here right after his shift ended. He’s still in his suit, though he shed his jacket. His tie is tugged loose, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. He’s rolled up his sleeves, too. He’s been out here for hours.
“Sure.” I bounce the ball back and then shed my own jacket and tie and drop both on the edge of the court. He lets me start, and I charge, fighting around his hard press and his ferocious close game. He crowds me, forces me to roll. Still, I manage a jump shot, finger-rolling the ball into the basket.
Sheridan takes the rebound and darts to the line, then starts his own charge. He dribbles fast, moves even faster. I hard press him. His eyes are embers as they flick between the hoop and me. He wiggles left. I lunge. He leaps, and I jump with him—
We collide in midair, and the ball goes wide, twanging off the backboard and looping out of bounds. We come down tangled together, Sheridan’s arms around me, his face in my neck as he steadies me and keeps me on my feet. I grasp his forearms. Lean in.
I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for another person—another man—to want me or cherish me. I’m not ready to face the truth in Sheridan’s eyes.
I’m also not ready to think about why I can smile with him when nothing makes me smile these days.
Sheridan’s breath is hot, puffs of both exertion and shock. His arms tighten, and his hands slip around my back as if he’s holding me, cradling—
He spins away, flinging himself free as he chases the ball toward the line of trees and the shadows outside the puddle of the court light.
I’m frozen at the three-point line.
Brennan held me like that. He laid his face against my neck and breathed me in. He cherished me, and he held me like he cherished me, and the memory of his arms around me is fracturing me again.
Sheridan’s back. He’s two-handing the ball in front of his chest, elbows wide, and staring at the court like he’s trying to melt the pavement and disappear into the earth. He’s a shade of burgundy I haven’t seen before. Is this embarrassment or anger? Frustration or fury?
“I’m sorry,” he starts.
“Sheridan—”
He cuts me off, which is a first. “You know, right? How I feel about you?” He still won’t look at me.
“I do.”
He nods and looks away. His fingers play over the surface of the basketball like he’s trying to find its eyeballs and gouge them out. His jaw is firing, the muscle in his cheek snapping. “It sucks falling in love with someone you can’t be with.”
His voice is quiet, but it cuts me to my marrow.
I want to commiserate with him, lean into him, tell him of my agonies and anguished nights, about how I can’t breathe because of the pain and how every time I close my eyes I see bleu clair eyes and the shape of Brennan’s smile. That I wake up on my side every day, staring at an empty pillow and imagining that Brennan is there, denting the cotton and watching me sleep as his fingers play in my hair—
But Sheridan is looking at me the way I look at Brennan.
I’m watching a heart shatter in real time.
