The Second Season

by The Second Season (epub)

“You’re here!” Ariana says. “And Dad’s here! And I never have to go to school again!”

  “We’ll see,” Ruth says.

  Two weeks from now, a newly hollowed Ruth will accompany Ariana to a photoshoot on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. Expecting resistance, Ruth will be surprised when Ariana seems amused by her mother’s sudden need to shadow her. Grateful, Ruth will at first hang back but soon find the environment pleasantly familiar. She will engage the photography assistant in a discussion of long-term career goals; she will confirm that the makeup artist is using a foundation with adequate sun protection. When Ariana and the photographer embrace—having worked together before, evidently—the man, with his pale, concave cheeks, Lennon glasses, and mop of graying hair, looks askance at Ruth. To Ari he says, “You’re eighteen, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yeah,” Ari answers. Her outfit is more juvenile than anything she would wear in real life: a fraying denim skirt, a sweatshirt advertising Niagara Falls in retro cursive. The skirt is too small, the sweatshirt too large. Both items look thrifted. The clothes are beside the point, Ruth supposes. The point is the model’s body—a fantasy version of the consumer’s. “Mom gets lonely during the off-season.”

  Wrinkling his forehead: “Off-season?”

  Ruth and Ariana will exchange a look, silently agreeing to explain nothing.

  It’s the photographer on whom Ruth keeps a watchful eye. She doesn’t appreciate his need to verify Ariana’s age, nor his habit of objectifying his model in the third-person: “Have her put her left hand on her hip.” “That smile should be more American.” “Pull the sweatshirt down over the shoulder.” Distracted by what she perceives as disrespect, Ruth almost overlooks the young, handsome set stylist who, an hour into the shoot, notices the Band-Aid wrapped around Ariana’s right index finger.

  “Hold up.” Nathan is a Black twenty-two-year-old with short twists and a fashionably misshapen T-shirt. Carefully he peels the Band-Aid from Ariana’s finger, stuffing it into the pocket of his skinny jeans. (How and when did Ariana hurt herself? Ruth will want to know, refrain from asking.) Ariana thanks him, the rising temperature of her cheeks perceptible, perhaps, only to her mother.

  That night, Nathan will drive his burnt-orange nineties Beemer to the Airbnb Ariana is sharing with Ruth. By agreeing to go out, by wearing an unbuttoned blazer over a lace bralette, Ariana could be testing her mother: How badly do you want to be here? How much power do you think you have? The answers would be hard to articulate. Ruth would be tempted to assert there’s nowhere she’d rather be. But isn’t there?

  As for her power, Ruth knows she has none. And maybe Ariana’s decision to go to dinner with Nathan has nothing to do with Ruth. Maybe Ariana likes beautiful boys and tacos from Guisados and balmy summer nights on Sunset Boulevard.

  At the door, Ruth says, “Have fun.”

  When Nathan says, “Thanks, Ruth,” in what can’t be an accidental echo of every player who has ever named her on air, Ruth is torn between laughing and rescinding her unsolicited blessing. Of the people in Ariana’s life, particularly those whom Ruth did not personally select, Ruth always itches to approve or disapprove fully. Her anxiety leaves no room for nuance. Watching Ariana climb into the kid’s vintage car, Ruth resists her own judgment, arbitrary as it would have to be. Ruth is likely to learn nothing of the date, and to never see Nathan again.

  Waiting up all night, intermittently texting Lester about free-agency rumors, Ruth vows to study up on the jargon and standards of Ariana’s industry. From now on Ruth will pore over every contract and remain alert to breaches. She will buy a small apartment in Los Angeles, a home base for the two of them on the West Coast. She will impose herself on Ariana’s adulthood, prepared to be both resented and relied upon. Over the years that follow, Ruth and Ariana will form a tradition of meeting in New York during fashion week. For Ruth, the ritual becomes the perfect excuse to avoid the nauseating spectacle of All-Star Weekend, the sport she takes dead-seriously caricatured in the Celebrity Game, the Dunk Contest. Ruth will be surprised at how quickly she learns to enjoy the lustrous theater of the runway, at how easily she memorizes the names of the designers, photographers, brands, and agencies. She will stop torturing herself on Instagram. She will acknowledge the inhumanity of measuring her own failures in the exposed flesh of her daughter.

  On the football field Ruth presses her nose into the top of Ari’s head. She breathes in the only human smell that doesn’t currently make her want to barf. Ruth is too old to be pregnant and yet she’s younger than the other mothers fawning over their graduates. Briefly, Ruth wonders if she’s denying Ariana a crucial gift: a person with whom she shares a mother.

  A person who knows what it means to be Ruth Devon’s child.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Lester meeting us at the restaurant?” Joel asks, buckling himself into the passenger seat of Ruth’s car. Ariana is riding with her father. Ruth murmurs vaguely in Joel’s direction, hypnotized by the rumors on her phone. Emory Turner and Darius Lake had dinner together in New York. Emory, who has been infuriatingly opaque on the subject of free-agency. And Darius, who has proven himself a player at the peak of his powers.

  Would Emory really leave Seattle for Cincinnati? Does his friendship with Darius—or a championship ring—mean that much after all?

  Ruth’s thoughts run wild. Turner signing with the Wildcats would be league-shaking. And what would the team look like restructured? Like a reincarnation of the Supersonics two seasons ago? Would Darius retain his present role as the focal point of the offense? Is anyone sure that Emory will recover and be the same player? Would it be worth jettisoning multiple players—as the Cats would have to do to get under the salary cap—for an Emory who’s a shell of his former self?

  And in the best-case scenario, in which Emory and Darius slip seamlessly back into the league’s most formidable pick-and-roll partnership, who is going to coach this team?

  The answers to these questions matter to Ruth—and not just because she’s paid to obsess over the possible outcomes. If Emory signs with Cincinnati, Ruth will follow him there. She’ll have to return to that dressing room, to the smells of that aging arena and to the sound, echoed in her memory, of bones breaking.

  Ruth refrains from texting everyone she knows. She’s getting ahead of herself. This was a dinner between best friends, nothing unusual about that. (Though, theoretically, their friendship provides the perfect cover: Emory can’t take official meetings until July.) The fans’ hysterical thirst is an urge she herself must not feel, even if her job is to quench it.

  Her phone is ringing. Her obsession with the dinner in New York evaporates. She has pressed the phone to her ear and said “Hello?” before she has fully registered the incoming call. She ought to have taken a second to steel herself. Or cross herself. Or clear the rasp from her voice.

  Ruth trusts Phillip to cut to the chase, and he does.

  “RD, I’m not going to lie to you. There were a lot of discussions. Endless back-and-forth. Things got ugly when people started throwing Bell’s name around. But ultimately, the execs left it up to the producers, and once they did that, well, it was an easy choice. The job is yours.”

  Ruth has always wondered how it would feel to get what she wants, and now she knows.

  Joel has climbed out of the car. Either because he didn’t hear Phillip’s voice through the speaker, or because he did and would rather not hear Ruth’s response. He stands in the high school parking lot with his back to the windshield, hands in his pockets. There’s something hesitant in his posture, as if he can’t decide whether to lean against the hood or do a lap around the lot.

  Ruth is alone. Her tears are instant, silent even as they rattle her. She’s only half conscious of pressing a hand against her abdomen. That peel of laughter—it’s warm and poised and destined for airwaves. “I’m grateful, Phillip, but I think you’re lying to me. I know how many
qualified candidates were in the running. It must have been an extremely difficult decision for the network.”

  Phillip says, “No, Ruth. You’re peerless.”

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I want to first thank my agent, Susan Ginsburg, for everything she does on my behalf. I’m also grateful to her assistant, Catherine Bradshaw, and to everyone at Writers House who supported this book.

  My writing has benefited enormously from Peggy Hageman’s sharp editorial skills. I was lucky enough to work with Peggy on two books, including The Second Season, before she died. I will miss her feedback and her friendship; I wish she’d had more time.

  Thank you to everyone at Blackstone Publishing, including Lauren Maturo, Jeffrey Yamaguchi, Josie Woodbridge, Rick Bleiweiss, Naomi Hynes, Alenka Linaschke, Greg Boguslawski, Megan Wahrenbrock, Ember Hood, Hannah Ohlmann, Ciera Cox, and Mandy Earles. It has been a pleasure working with all of you.

  Huge thanks to Brooke Olzendam for taking the time to talk me through a day in the life of an NBA sideline reporter; I remain a devoted fan. I’m also grateful to Geoff Butler for answering my many questions about broadcasting.

  Thank you to friends and first readers: Carolyn Eyre, Kerry Winfrey, Liz Zaretsky, and especially Lauren Rochford, who never lets me miss a Woj bomb.

  Thanks to my brother Andy for modeling a lifelong NBA obsession, and to my sister-in-law Char for reading a messy first draft and cheering me on.

  And thank you to Dan—because when I said, “Who’s that?” you said, “That’s Doris.”

  About the Author

  Emily Adrian is the author of several novels, including Everything Here Is under Control. Originally from Portland, Oregon, Emily currently lives in New Haven, Connecticut, with her husband, her son, and her dog named Hank.