When We’re Ready

Rowan Baker had been told all his life that he was born for basketball. Not encouraged. Not talented. Not promising. Born for it. His mother had said it first. She had been standing courtside when Rowan was eight years old, watching him dribble a basketball that was almost too big for his small hands. He had stumbled twice, fallen once, scraped his knee, and then gotten back up without crying. Instead, he had picked up the ball and tried the same move again. And again. And again. By the time he was twelve, his mother had stopped calling basketball a hobby. By fifteen, she had turned it into a career plan. By twenty-two, Rowan Baker was an NBA player. And not just any NBA player. He was a Los Angeles Laker. The purple-and-gold jersey hung perfectly against his broad shoulders as he walked through the tunnel at Crypto.com Arena, his sneakers squeaking lightly against the polished floor. The arena was already alive. Thousands of people filled the seats. Cameras flashed. Music thundered through the speakers. The giant screens above the court displayed highlights from the previous game—Rowan crossing over a defender, stepping behind the three-point line, and releasing a shot before the defender could recover. Swish. The crowd erupted. Rowan watched the replay for half a second before looking away. He wasn’t interested in watching himself. He was interested in playing. That was the difference between Rowan and most people around him. Everyone else seemed fascinated by what basketball had made him. Rowan was fascinated by basketball itself. The game. The rhythm. The sound of the ball hitting hardwood. The feeling of a perfectly timed pass. The split second before a shot left his fingertips. The way five players could move as one if they trusted each other enough. Basketball made sense to him. People didn’t always. “Rowan!” He turned. “What’s up?” His teammate, Marcus Reed, jogged toward him, grinning. “Coach wants us in the film room in ten.” Rowan nodded. “Got it.” Marcus looked him up and down. “You know, you could at least pretend you’re excited.” “I am.” “You don’t look excited.” “I don’t look excited when I’m excited.” Marcus laughed. “That’s because you’re weird.” Rowan smiled. Maybe he was. He had always been calm. Even as a kid. Even during high-pressure games. Even during draft night. While other players had been crying, hugging their families, pacing around, or staring anxiously at their phones, Rowan had sat beside his mother with his hands folded between his knees. Then his name had been called. Rowan Baker. The arena had exploded. His mother had screamed. His father had stood up. His older brother had hugged him so hard Rowan could barely breathe. And Rowan? He had simply closed his eyes for a second. Because somewhere inside him, he had known. This was coming. Not because he was arrogant. Because his entire life had been built around that moment. His mother had made sure of it. Victoria Baker had been the architect. She had planned everything. Meals. Training. Recovery. Sleep. School. Strength conditioning. Shooting sessions. Physical therapy. Media training. Endorsement meetings. Even the times Rowan was allowed to have dessert. “You’re laughing.” Rowan looked toward Marcus. “What?” “You’re smiling.” “I smile.” “Rarely.” Rowan shook his head. Marcus laughed again before heading toward the film room. Rowan followed. At twenty-two, Rowan was one of the youngest players in the Lakers organization, but his youth was easy to forget once he stepped onto the court. He was six-foot-six, long-limbed, athletic, and deceptively strong. He played primarily as a shooting guard and small forward, but he could handle the ball like a point guard when necessary. His greatest weapon wasn’t even his height. It was his vision. Rowan saw passing lanes before they opened. He could bring the ball up the floor, read the defense, and make a decision within seconds. If the defender gave him space, he shot. If the defender stepped up, Rowan attacked. If help came from the corner, he found the open shooter. If the center stepped up to stop his drive, he could pull the ball back, create separation, and take the jumper. And when he got hot? There wasn’t much a defender could do. His three-point shot was smooth. No unnecessary movement. No hesitation. His feet would set. His shoulders would square. His elbow would settle beneath the ball. Then— release. The ball seemed to disappear into the basket. His coaches loved his efficiency. His teammates loved his passing. Fans loved his highlights. And women loved his face. That was something Rowan still didn’t understand. He had the kind of face people remembered. Soft features. High cheekbones. A straight nose. Full lips. Dark, thick hair that his mother insisted he keep trimmed even though he preferred it slightly longer. But his eyes were what people talked about. Seafoam green. Not simply green. Seafoam. Depending on the lighting, they could look pale and almost translucent. Under the arena lights, they appeared brighter. Outside, they sometimes looked darker. Photographers had asked him about them countless times. Interviewers too. “Are your eyes really that color?” “Do you wear contacts?” “Where did you get those eyes?” His answer was always the same. “From my mother.” And that was true. His mother had the same unusual shade. Victoria Baker had given him more than her eyes, though. She had given him discipline. She had given him ambition. And, arguably, she had given him his entire career. ⸻ The Bakers were not an ordinary family. Money had always been around them. Not flashy money. Not the kind that needed to announce itself. Old connections. Investments. Private meetings. Wall Street dinners. Sports foundations. Corporate events. Charity galas. The Baker name had been circulating through financial circles for decades. Rowan’s father, Alexander Baker, was a highly successful Wall Street broker. Alexander was the sort of man who could walk into a room and make people lower their voices. He was calculated, polished, and exceptionally disciplined. He believed money was a tool. Not something to worship. Something to build with. His eldest son, Nathaniel Baker, had followed him into finance. At twenty-nine, Nathaniel was already working alongside some of the people who had once worked with their father. Nathaniel understood numbers the way Rowan understood basketball. Give him a balance sheet and he could spend hours studying it. Give Rowan a basketball and he could do the same. Then there was Victoria. Victoria had never cared much about Wall Street. Her world was basketball. Specifically, Rowan. She had been there from his first youth league game. She had sat through tournaments. She had driven him to early-morning practices. She had hired trainers. She had studied nutrition. She had researched recovery methods. She had learned about athletic conditioning. She had watched hours of game footage. She had even learned defensive terminology so she could argue with Rowan’s coaches. “Your feet are too slow on the closeout.” “Mom.” “I’m serious.” “You’re not my coach.” “I’ve been coaching you since you were eight.” “Exactly.” “And you’re still alive, aren’t you?” Rowan had laughed. That was Victoria. His mother was the only person in the world who could make him roll his eyes and smile at the same time. She still controlled his schedule. Even now. Especially now. There was a calendar on her phone containing nearly every minute of Rowan’s life. Practice. Recovery. Meals. Media appearances. Endorsement commitments. Physical therapy. Family dinners. Sleep. She knew what he ate. How long he slept. How much water he drank. How many shots he took after practice. How many minutes he spent on the court. Sometimes Rowan wondered whether his mother knew his body better than he did. Probably. “Rowan.” He looked up. His mother was standing at the entrance of the practice facility. Of course she was. She wore cream trousers, a fitted black blouse, and heels that clicked confidently against the floor. She had a tablet tucked under one arm. Rowan sighed. “Hi, Mom.” “Did you eat?” “Yes.” “What?” “Breakfast.” “What did you eat?” “Eggs.” “How many?” “Mom.” “Rowan.” He stared at her. She stared back. “Four.” “Four whole eggs?” “Yes.” “And?” “Oatmeal.” “Fruit?” “Yes.” “Water?” “Yes.” She nodded. “Good.” Marcus walked past them and whispered, “She’s terrifying.” Victoria turned immediately. “I heard that.” Marcus froze. Rowan laughed. “Go to the film room,” Victoria told him. Marcus disappeared. Victoria looked back at her son. “Your father wants you home for dinner.” “I have practice.” “After practice.” “I have treatment.” “After treatment.” “Mom.” “Your brother is coming.” That got his attention. “Nathan?” “Yes.” “What does he want?” “Probably to remind you that you still don’t understand the stock market.” Rowan smiled. “Then he can explain it again.” Victoria smiled. “That’s my boy.” She reached up and straightened the collar of his warm-up jacket. Even at twenty-two. Even as an NBA player. Even with thousands of people knowing his name. To Victoria Baker, he was still her son. Her little boy. The boy who used to shoot hoops in the driveway until his fingers hurt. The boy she had promised would make it. And he had. ⸻ That night, Rowan sat in the back of his father’s car, watching Los Angeles pass through the window. His phone kept vibrating. Messages. Social media notifications. Brand offers. Team messages. His name had been trending after his performance the previous night. Thirty-two points. Seven rebounds. Six assists. Three steals. Four three-pointers. People were talking about him. They always were. His father glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “Good game.” “Thanks, Dad.” “You looked comfortable.” “I was.” Alexander nodded. “That’s important.” Rowan looked out the window. His father was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Your mother tells me you have another endorsement meeting next week.” “I know.” “Do you want it?” Rowan shrugged. “It’s part of the job.” Alexander smiled faintly. “That’s a very Baker answer.” Rowan looked at him. “What does that mean?” “It means you understand that success comes with responsibilities.” Rowan didn’t respond. His father continued driving. Then his phone buzzed again. Rowan glanced down. Another message. A woman. He had met her at a team event. She was beautiful. Blonde. Tall. Confident. She had sent him a photograph of herself from the party. Rowan stared at the screen. He knew what was expected. He knew how this worked. Players dated women. Players attended parties. Players had girlfriends. People assumed. And Rowan had never corrected them. He didn’t know what he would say even if someone asked. Because there was something about himself that he had never said aloud. Not to his mother. Not to his father. Not to Nathaniel. Not to his teammates. Not even to himself in a way that felt completely honest. He liked women. He could appreciate them. He could recognize beauty. But sometimes— His eyes lingered on men. Not just physically. Their clothes. Their confidence. Their voices. The shape of their shoulders. The way certain men carried themselves. He noticed. More than he wanted to. And it frightened him. Not because there was anything wrong with those men. But because Rowan had spent his entire life becoming exactly what everyone expected him to become. The Baker athlete. The NBA star. The handsome son. The future face of major brands. The disciplined player. The young man who would eventually marry some beautiful woman, have children, and continue the Baker legacy. That was the picture everyone had painted. And Rowan had never picked up a brush to change it. He had never dated a man. Never kissed one. Never experimented. Never crossed that line. He didn’t even know what he would do if the opportunity ever came. So he buried the thought. Deep. Very deep. Where nobody could see it. Where even he could pretend it wasn’t there. His phone vibrated again. The woman had sent another message. You disappeared last night. Rowan stared at it. Then he typed: Sorry. Long day. He sent it. Nothing more. He locked his phone. Outside, Los Angeles glittered beneath the evening sky. The city was loud. Beautiful. Restless. Full of people chasing something. Rowan had already caught the dream everyone thought he wanted. He had the jersey. The contract. The money. The family. The fame. The future. Everything was going exactly according to plan. Exactly as his mother had planned. Exactly as his father had planned. Exactly as the Baker family expected. And Rowan Baker had absolutely no intention of letting anyone discover the one part of him that didn’t fit the plan. Not now. Not ever. At least— That was what he believed. Until the night everything changed.