Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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This feels like a dream.
I've watched the NBA draft every year since I was a kid. It was my favorite day of the year, not just because my dad would waive my bedtime so we could see it all play out live on our shitty old TV, but because it was the one day my mom would turn a blind eye to the piles of chips, ice cream, cookies, and candy my dad would lay out for us on the coffee table.
I'd stuff my face with popcorn while we'd down our beers—mine of the non-alcoholic root variety—and watch as each player was drafted to a team. It was exciting, but admittedly, I was more excited about the fact that I was hanging out with my dad after bedtime.
When I got older, I learned to appreciate it a little more. My root beer turned into actual beer, and I understood the gravity of the situation as each name was called out. The players on the screen were living my dream. They were experiencing the one thing that I was working my ass off to achieve. And now that I'm sitting here, surrounded by an arena full of basketball fanatics, I can feel their energy piquing as the producers with headsets and clipboards run around the arena floor, directing camerapeople to kneel near specific tables as they yell into their headsets about sticking to the schedule.
I've glanced down at my watch every thirty seconds for the past fifteen minutes. The draft goes live in less than two minutes, and based on how the cameraman kneeling a few feet away from our table is adjusting the lens and giving a thumbs up to one of the producers behind me, I know that my face is about to be broadcasted all over national television.
I pull the sleeve of my suit jacket back to recheck my watch, but before I can read the time, Abby's hand brushes over mine, interlocking our fingers. She pulls my hand into her lap, and the cool caress of her silk dress against my fingers as she leans her head against my shoulder is enough to draw my attention away from the cameras and stages and excited fans still finding their seats in the surrounding arena. When she brings my hand up to her lips and presses a soft kiss to my palm, the tension that's been building since we sat down starts to ease.
"Everything's fine. Everything's going to be okay," I say, more to myself than to her, but she looks up, and her smile deepens at my words.
"Everything's going to be okay," she repeats softly, just loud enough for me to hear. "No matter what."
No matter what.
The Raptors have the first pick, but to be completely honest, I don't think they're going to draft me. According to Greg Bradshaw's latest report, Zayn's meeting with the head coach went so well they almost extended an official offer right there. By the massive smile on his face as he leans back in his chair to talk to his mom, it's clear that he feels it, too—he's going to be the number one pick. He's going to Toronto.
Zayn and I have had this unspoken competition since I met him freshman year. We've always been so closely matched it was impossible not to give in to the rivalry, especially since the media would constantly pit us against each other. But if taking second place means that I get to live with my girl in New York, then fuck it, I'll happily take the L this time.
I pull her close, resting my chin on the top of her head. The smell of her vanilla apple spice calms me further as I try to pay attention to my mom gush over how surreal this feels—how she remembers me playing in my very first basketball game as a toddler—but the sound of that godforsaken horn turns all of our attention toward the stadium seating.
I spot Luke in the first row instantly. He flashes a wide grin, leaning back in his seat as he throws his arm around Coach's shoulders, giving him a look that's clearly meant to say, I told you the horn would work.
My entire team is sitting in the front row. I knew they were coming, thanks to the picture Micah sent me this morning of them all crowded together, flipping off the camera as they boarded their flight, but it's still surreal to see them all here.
The infamous chime echoes loudly through the arena as the lights drop, leaving the stadium in near darkness, apart from the candlelight flickering on the tables of potential draftees and the spotlights settling on the stage. The commissioner makes his way across the stage toward the podium, and when he stops and considers the crowd with a satisfied smile, my heart hammers painfully in my chest.
The crowd's wild cheers send a current of energy around the dark room, building the kind of adrenaline in my veins that I've only ever experienced on the court, and a wave of goosebumps rushes over my arms and down my back as the chime echoes through the speakers again, signaling the start of the draft. Luke's horn blares in an ear-shattering rumble around the stadium, and when it's cut off sharply, I don't have to look over to know that Coach must have knocked it out of his hands.
It's palpable—the excitement, the anxiety, the fear—and when I look around the arena floor at all of my fellow draftee candidates, I know this is a moment I'll never forget.
"Welcome to the 2020 NBA draft." The commissioner's voice reverberates loudly through the arena but is still somehow nearly drowned out by the screams and cheers of the crowd.
This is it.
This is what I've worked my entire life for.
Every grueling practice. Every sunrise weight room workout. Every lap on the track. Every sprint on the court. Every injury. Every weekend I spent playing in tournaments and elite leagues just to be seen by scouts. Every hour spent alone in the practice gym working on my shot long after everyone else went home for the night. This is what I've worked for—and now it's finally here.
This is the start of my career.
Abby's hands squeeze mine, and I want to look over to see her smiling up at me, but I'm frozen in place as I watch the commissioner lean forward into the microphone and wave his hand to signal for the crowd to quiet down.
"With the first pick in the 2020 NBA draft, the Toronto Raptors select Tristan Beck from the University of Southern Washington."
The crowd in the stadium explodes around me, but even though I know I've just heard that right, I can't fucking think straight. I can't process anything because my entire body feels numb and detached as I push back my chair and wrap my mom in a tight hug. When she finally releases me, I pull my dad into a hug, then my sisters, and then I turn back to see Abby standing behind them, tears streaming down her face as she watches Olivia finally step out of my embrace.
Toronto Raptors.
Toronto.
She's crying, but when I step toward her, and she tilts her head back to look up at me with the brightest smile I've ever seen, I can tell that they aren't sad tears—they're excited tears, happy tears, proud tears.
I know I don't have much time, so I cup her face and lean down to brush my lips against hers. It's a quick kiss, but it's exactly what I need to ground myself again, not to feel so numb to the entire situation, and when I pull away and look down at her, she beams up at me.
"No matter what," I say, taking a step back toward the stage where I have to go shake the commissioner's hand, but I don't turn around until her smile deepens, and it's damn near blinding as she repeats my words.
