"No understand. United States not play basketball?"
I hedged. "Well, yes, we do. But I'm not good enough to play in that league."
"Not good enough?" she repeated. Then, rocking her baby, she asked me a question that sent me reeling: "Why not good enough?"
I laughed awkwardly, thinking back to the time when Amy had similarly tried to convince me I was good enough to play in the U.S. Some people just didn’t understand how tough it was to even be a bench warmer in the NBA. There were millions of kids who grew up with the dream, when in reality, there were only thirty teams times twelve players on each of those teams. And only six of those players really got any playing time. So the odds of me making it were not good. I spared Doña Maria the complicated math.
"Trust me, I'm better off here," I summarized.
"Why you not at least try? Que vas a perder? What will you lose, mi hijo?"
I sipped my drink and nodded. My gaze drifted off into the street. What did I have to lose by putting a few feelers out to the NBA? Nothing, really.
“Yo no pensé que iba a tener un hijo a los cuarenta. Pero ahora sí. Y es mi vida.”
“And I’m so glad you did have a son, Maria,” I said, watching the boy stare at me. “And he’s a beautiful boy.”
She smiled warmly as she bounced the baby boy on her knee. For almost midnight, the boy was pretty damn playful. A Spanish night owl in the making.
“Anda, Chandler. You are distressed. Maybe you and Amy will be together, maybe not. But you must try.”
Fuck. Yes. I must try. Maybe it wouldn’t work out. Just like maybe the NBA wouldn’t work. But if I didn’t at least give it a fair shot, I’d be kicking myself forever.
“Dammit Doña Maria, you and Le Ral with your love advice—how did you get to be so wise?”
***
When I got home that night, I did something I hadn’t done in ages: I Googled the standings for the NBA and did a little research. Normally, I didn’t give two shits about professional basketball in the United States because I was too busy doing my own damn thing. February was the month that teams who were trying to make a run at the playoffs typically looked for last second additions to their roster. Generally, there were two types of players they looked to add: big men and three point shooters. "Big" in the NBA meant seven feet or taller, so at 6’3” I was basically a midget by professional basketball standards. Everyone always laughed when I told them this. I would always remind them that even Steph Curry was only 6’4”. So naturally, I fell into the bucket of three-point shooters.
I knew I wouldn't get a starting spot right away, but I might come in late in the game and nail a key shot or two. The point was that I'd have the opportunity to work my way into the lineup for a team that might want me. If I kept improving, I’d get my shot, that much I knew.
Truthfully, the only reason I was even giving myself a chance at being in the NBA was my recent hot shooting streak, which had only begun since Amy arrived. Once it had continued after she left, it became less of a streak and instead just the way I played every day. All of the players and coaches had noticed my new and improved focus on the court. Maybe part of it was due to the fact that I had cut back on the drinking and the partying and was putting in extra time in the gym; instead, I was getting at least five hundred extra shots a day in. My logic was strange but made sense to me: what was the point of partying if Amy wasn’t there? I couldn’t have fun anymore unless I was with her, or going home to talk to her on Skype, which was getting old. I missed her presence, doing stuff with her, doing everything with her. I think even Jessica was sad when Amy didn’t come back with me the day she’d left.
Only Le Ral really knew the truth about what to attribute it to, but since we had taken down Serbia's squad of stars—most of them had NBA interest—now we were the favorites to win the EuroBasket. And I was the reason.
According to Bleacher Report, there were a few teams in the NBA who desperately were in need of a late season sharp shooter who could hit key shots late in games. I noted the teams, and then fired off an email to a college buddy of mine who was an intern for an agency. I included links to a couple of my highlight reels and press releases from recent games. Hopeful those would state my case to perhaps at least get a team to look at me, or maybe fly me in for a tryout. I had no agent so I had to do all the legwork myself.
When I pressed ‘send’, I felt something I hadn't in quite some time: anxiety over basketball. For the last four years, I'd stayed in my comfort zone in a lot of ways. I'd played in the league that was easiest for me, where I’d be a big deal. I'd run away from my family, who I never really got along with fully. And last but not least, I'd dated in my comfort zone. I stuck to superficial relationships that were a mile long and an inch deep. One-night stands and ten-night stands that I knew weren’t going anywhere.
On the surface, I probably looked like I had everything going for me. But the truth was, for the past year, I’d had a nagging feeling that something was missing. That I wasn’t fulfilling my potential. Things that used to seem fun—staying up all night drinking, beating an opponent by fifty points—weren’t fun anymore. Amy reentering my life had made that even more obvious. My thoughts on family and the long-term future still scared me but Amy was the one woman that I could see that life with and it could be a great life.
Slowly, through our Skype calls, I’d finally started working out my issues with my family, at my disconnection from them and had even thought about rebuilding those relationships, aside from my birth father, who I still didn’t care to look up. The envelope she’d gotten me on him remained on my kitchen counter, where I’d tossed it after our final dinner. Still, Amy’s encouragement and her telling me about her relationships with her own family made me think that I hadn’t tried hard enough. That I’d taken the easy route instead of accepting that even a little effort could go a long way. I’d also never tried to understand my mom and the choices she’d made. I guess a part of me had taken up psychology as my major for that reason on top of learning how to get into my opponent’s head.
I was seeing my life in ways I’d never ever thought of. Since Amy’s departure, there was this strange void wherever I went. My apartment felt so empty and just…not a home. Amy had made it feel homey with her cooking, just sitting with me at breakfast or watching TV with me. My life was so empty, had been for years. All I’d had that meant a damn thing to me was basketball. That wasn’t enough. Not anymore. I could choose to live the old life and pretend I didn’t feel hollow and lonely or I could do something about it.
I took a deep breath, not sure why I felt suddenly stressed. Amy and I hadn't planned to Skype tonight, but I still wanted to talk to her. I texted her to see if she was around, and then logged into my Skype account. There was no answer from my text, but to my surprise her name popped up when I logged in, as she was logged onto her account.
I smiled as I pressed call, and I realized why I’d felt stressed. It had been two days since I’d talked with her. Her schedule had been packed yesterday, then with my game today in France, I thought I might be at the airport or flying, but we managed to catch an early flight back.
The call was picked up, but confusion ran through me when someone else answered. When the video came into focus, I recognized the person as Amy’s friend who I had met on Skype a few weeks ago.
“Uh, hello there,” I said, only able to offer a confused smile. “Andrea?”
“Yes, Chandler.” She spoke my name like she was spitting venom.
“Oh. Well…good to see you again. Where is Amy?”
She shook her head. “Wow. You are really something, aren’t you? You’ve got some fucking nerve. You want to know where I am? I’ll tell you. I’m at Illinois Masonic Hospital in Chicago with Amy. I was trying to figure out what she was last doing on her computer when she passed out cold in the office tonight.”
My adrenaline skyrocketed. “Amy passed out?! Is she okay?!”
“Yes, I found her in the office when I c
ame by to pick up a few documents I needed. And thank God I did, because she hit her head as she went to the ground. And wouldn’t you know the only words I could get out of her in her weakened state?”
I didn’t like where this was going. “What?”
“Chandler. Cheater.”
My heart jumped out of my throat and I swallowed, trying to tamp it back town. “Okay. I don’t get it. I’m honestly not quite understanding why she would say that.”
“You know, you really are dense, aren’t you?”
A man took the computer from Andrea and my heart rate spiked again when I realized who it was.
“Jake Napleton?”
His face was as cold as ice. “Listen buddy, I don’t know what the fuck you did to this girl. But Andrea called me, crying when she found her in the office. She thought Amy might be dead! Luckily we have the best doctors, and it turns out she probably just had low blood sugar mixed with the fact that she hasn’t been taking her anxiety medications lately, and her chemistry was off. But you, buddy, wow. You are really a piece of work. One Google search and the jig was up.”
I took deep breaths, trying to stay calm. I respected a fellow athlete, but I wasn’t about to let him walk all over me, either. I kept calm, reminding myself that his celebrity status didn’t matter. This was Amy’s best friend’s fiancé, and I couldn’t flip out.
“I’m not a big internet guy, but go ahead.”
“Ha! Not a big internet guy,” he said, getting angrier by the second. He pulled out his phone and scrolled on it. “Well, we were able to find a few Spanish news sites that gave us the rundown. Thank god for Google Page translate. Let’s see…here’s a gem.” He turned his phone towards me for a few seconds and I saw a picture of myself at La Vaca que Fuma. Amy was next to me but her back was turned. I had no clue anyone had even taken a picture, let alone eavesdropping on my conversations with Amy. Jake turned it back and read off it. “Article in the sports section of Spanish Slam Dunk: Who is the biggest ladies man on the team? Oh that’s easy. Chandler Spiros. Speaks Spanish like a native, looks like a Greek God, and basically has to fight them off with a stick. Last night, he was seen with a total hottie, who he called ‘Squirt’.” Jake stopped and glared at me. “Well, I think I’ll let you figure out the rest. They show a bunch of other pictures of you with a lot of other women—and I thought my party pictures were over the top.”
“Listen buddy, Squirt is the name I call Amy,” I said, panicking a little. “And that’s Amy in the shot! That wasn’t even a month ago!”
He arched an eyebrow. “What kind of nickname is ‘Squirt’ anyway?” He shook his head. “She’s never told us that story, if it’s even true.”
I gritted my teeth. “It’s just between us.”
“Likely story, but it’s clear you can’t be trusted.” Jake looked off. “Drea, you know anything about this story about a nickname Chandler gave her?”
“Never told me,” Andrea said, disdain evident in her voice.
“Listen, I don’t care what that, or any article says about me! That Spanish Slam Dunk?! That’s basically the equivalent of a TMZ in America. It’s a tabloid! They’ll print anything.”
“Maybe, but I found several other sites saying the same thing. All I had to do was search ‘Chandler Spiros’. There are like a dozen stories about you, man. They call you Casanova.”
I minimized the two of them, and actually cringed as I typed in my own name. I froze as I read the top three suggestions in Google.
Suggestion number one: Casanova.
Suggestion two: Womanizer
Suggestion three: Barcelona Basketball
“This is…come on!” I exclaimed. I gave Jake a long look. Out of anyone, he’d understand. “Jake, throw me a bone! You know what it’s like to be played with by the media, don’t you? So they’ve run a few ‘ladies man’ stories—k”
“All I know is that my fiancé’s best friend in the world could have died today if we hadn’t found her there, and here you are making excuses about what appears to be a shit-ton of stories about how you are a lady killer. I’m not asking, I’m telling you, stay the fuck away from Amy and do not cause her any more pain. Got it, buddy?”
My blood boiled and I clenched my fists. So the guy wanted a challenge? He had no fucking clue who he was dealing with.
My words cut like nails. “With due respect, Jake. Andrea. I appreciate the fact that you are looking out for your friend. But you are taking this a little too far. Don’t you think we should talk about this when she wakes up? Find out what the fuck happened?” I am in love with her, I wanted to scream but at this point, I knew that wouldn’t go over well. “The last thing I would do is cheat on the one person that I want to be with. Will you give me a chance?”
“I don’t know man,” Jake said, frowning and then he looked off then looked back at me. “Maybe. Listen, we have to go. Nurse is here.”
With that, he shut the laptop and the signal went dead. I ground my teeth and stared at the ended Skype call.
I wanted to blame Jake fucking Napleton for being a hardass. I wanted to blame Andrea. And Amy? Where the hell did she get the idea that I was cheating on her?
But, in the end, I couldn’t blame any of them. Past behavior was the best indicator of future behavior. I’d always judged people not by their words but by their actions. I’d honestly never thought about my reputation or that the media would actually take an interest in me. Athletes in Europe didn’t get the kind of celebrity attention and press that athletes in the States received so I’d never really had to protect myself that vigilantly. Or so I’d thought. And I could plead with my words all I wanted, but my actions said something else entirely: that I was not a one-girl kind of guy.
My rage built until I couldn’t take it. I closed my laptop in a fury and slammed it against the wall, breaking into the drywall.
“Fuuuuuuuck!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I wanted to fuck somebody up. I wanted to punch a wall. I wanted to get back on the court and terrorize my opponent.
I took a deep breath. Yelling wouldn’t do any good. I grabbed my jacket, packed a light bag, texted a quick note to Maria asking her to take care of Jess, and headed to the airport to catch the next flight to Chicago.
Before I left, I stuffed the envelope Amy had given me in my coat. Something told me I might need it.
Twenty-Nine
Chandler
When my flight touched town to O’Hare airport the next day, I realized a few things.
One, last minute flights are pricey as hell.
Two, I actually missed having the majority of people around me speaking in my native English language.
And three, I had absolutely no idea where Amy lived aside from the fact that she was hopefully still at Illinois Masonic Hospital, a place I’d had to Google. She hadn't answered any of my texts or calls in the past day since I'd booked my flight. I couldn't be sure if this was a result of her being in the hospital, or maybe she was seeing my messages and constantly ignoring them. I did not like either option.
I still had the envelope Amy had given me inside my coat pocket. I’d been carrying it around with me for the last week, but I hadn’t felt the need to open it.
Amy thought it would be good for me to know my father, but I wasn’t so sure.
Once I had picked up my modest black suitcase from the baggage claim, I walked straight outside and hailed the nearest cab. The man rolled down the window.
"How fast can you get me to Illinois Masonic Hospital, and how much is it?"
He punched it in on his GPS. "Says forty five minutes. It's a sixty dollar flat fee."
"I've got a hundred for you if we make it there under a half hour."
His eyes widened a little. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get the fuck in, buddy."
As promised, we pulled up in front of Illinois Masonic, which was on the north side of Chicago, in twenty-five minutes. I handed over the hundred-dollar bill, said my thanks and grabbed my suitcase.
“Hello sir.”
“Hello,” he dryly replied without looking up.
“I’m here to visit someone. Do you happen to have her room number for Amy Kershaw?”
It seemed like it took everything he had to move his eyes to look up at me. “You a relative?”
“Yes,” I lied.
He examined my face as if he was considering the truthfulness of what I’d said to him. “What’s your relation?”
Shit. “Fiancé,” I blurted out.
He assessed my panicky face and then nodded. “Okay,” he said, typing on his keyboard for a second. “Room two-twenty eight.”
I thanked him and walked briskly to the elevator, past a few nurses carting people around.
Finally I arrived at room two-twenty eight. The door to the room was closed. I set my suitcase by the door and knocked gently a couple of times. There was no answer, so I decided to open it, but then the door opened and I saw a girl.
“Hi,” I said, examining her face. She stepped outside of the door and shut it behind her, her expression not at all welcoming. “You must be Andrea.”
“Good eye. You’re Chandler.”
“That’s me. I came here to see Amy.”
She put her hands on her hips. Her eyes were kind, but her figure was tall and a little imposing. “Let me get this straight. You came all the way from Barcelona to see Amy?”
“That’s right. Are you going to let me in?”
Her expression was soft and feminine but stern at the same time. She didn’t move and kept glaring at me.
“Listen, Amy mentioned that you were a great friend of hers. And I don’t know what’s happened to her exactly. But if you could just let me in to talk to her, I can explain things and whatever it is—we can work it out.”
She crossed her arms, still standing between me and the door. “Look, I don’t know you. I don’t know the full history between you and Amy. But what I do know is that she ended up in the hospital because of something you did,” she said, her voice hard. “She’s fallen into another depressed state, and she’s being evaluated for a couple of days. The doctors say she shouldn’t take visitors aside from close friends and family.”
The Casanova Experience: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Ballers Book 2) Page 26