“You’re doing pretty good for a backup,” she says, her tone one of forced lightness.
“And how’s Cliff doing?” I ask, watching her face closely. “How’s he been?”
“He’s better.” She lowers her arms, the little wand she was using on my brows dangling from her fingers. “He’s actually doing really well. He just got a job coaching at my old high school.”
“That’s fantastic.” The granule of guilt I always feel when I think about Cliff scratches inside me for a second. “I’m really glad to hear that.”
“He’s, um…” She turns back to the mirror, stowing the tools she used. “He’s been clean for a while now. I assume you know about his struggles.”
In the mirror, I watch her plump lips pull into a flat line.
“After Sportsco did that disgusting exposé on him and other ‘flops,’” she says, bitterness woven into her words, “it triggered a relapse, but he’s better now.”
Her eyes find mine in the mirror.
“The reporter said you’d been contacted and asked to comment on all the trouble Cliff’s had since the championship game.” Her expression softens. “Thank you for not giving them anything more than they already had.”
They had a lot. The two-hour special documented in painstaking detail why Cliff and several other high school and college basketball phenoms ultimately failed to realize their potential. It was damning, and I wanted nothing to do with it.
“I would never talk about him to the press, or anyone, for that matter,” I say, my voice quiet, subdued. “I never have.”
“I know.”
Our eyes hold, and the space separating us heats, shrinks until even though she’s more than a foot away, it feels like there’s only a breath between us. Her chest rises and falls on a deep inhale. She licks her lips, almost nervously, and I can’t help myself. My eyes greedily track the movement, how she wets her bottom lip with her little pink tongue. Before my brain can wander to all the places I’d like that tongue to be, someone breaks the spell we’re under. Or at least, I am under.
“Are you Takira?” a tall girl with pink hair asks, stepping into our space. “Catalina sent me over for makeup.”
“Um, yeah.” Takira nods briskly. “I was just finishing up with someone.”
Pink Hair’s eyes wander to me, over me, and her grin goes wicked. “Well, hello, Mr. Armstrong. Ballers, ballers, everywhere. I’ll be at the after-party later if you’re looking for company.”
“I’ll be there.” I stand, removing the little smock tied around my neck to cover my clothes, and look down into Takira’s guarded eyes. “But I hope I’ll be busy catching up with an old friend.”
Takira doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. I don’t need her to. She gets started on Pink Hair’s makeup. If Takira doesn’t show up for the after-party, I’ll find her. After all these years and all that’s happened, we owe ourselves that.