At the Right Time

Chapter One

Rylie ~ Present

I rush into work, late as usual, because being on time has never been my thing. It's a rainy evening, and droplets of water slide down my face as I slam the back door of the bar.

"You're late again, Rylie."

  "I know. Sorry!" I call out at my manager. She secretly loves me, but she fusses at me in front of everyone else. Still, I need to do better at my time management. I can't take advantage of her kindness.

I type in my time code at the computer, then stop off in the bathroom to correct whatever the rain smeared. Thankfully, my makeup is still intact. I don't wear a lot, but on the weekends, I do a smoky eye. The men seem to like that look.

My whole life, I've heard guys say, "Girls don't need all that makeup. We want them natural."

Well, first of all, fuck those men. Second of all, tell me why I get tipped better when I have a full face of makeup on, then?

"What's up, babe?" Sabrina flies past me as I step out behind the bar, already tending to early customers.

"Nothing much. Got caught up painting again."

"How many damn walls are in that apartment?"

I laugh as she doesn't wait for my answer, but instead walks to the other end of the long bar. Sabrina thinks I've been painting my walls, and I don't have the heart to tell her I'm painting canvases. Besides, it isn't like I show anyone my art. It's just a fun hobby. That makes me late to work more often than I'd like to admit.

I take a deep breath, looking around the place. Harold's is one of the oldest bars in Atlanta. It's managed to stay somewhere between a beer joint and a VIP lounge. Oprah wouldn't come here, but neither would the junkie down the street. It's a nice balance.

A thin strip of mirrors hang on every wall, making the place look bigger than it is. Dim lights set the ambiance. A modern jukebox is nestled into the corner and gets ignored more than it gets used. We have a steady flow of music played through the overheard speakers, though. Typically, a more alternative pop.

We also have TVs strung up in all directions, so no matter which way the customer looks, they're able to see something. A few are set to constant reruns of Ridiculousness; some are subtitled episodes of The Office. Most of the TVS, though, showcase whichever sport is in season.

Unlucky for me, right now, it's basketball.

Not that I have anything against basketball, per say. The sport itself is fine. In fact, not to sound like a basic bitch, but it's about the only sport I understand fully.

The problem is with who gets cast up on the screen more often than I'd like.

Maxwell Rossi. Number five. In his fourth year of the NBA. Already working his way to the hall of fame. People love him for his talent, and if they don't love him for it, they hate him for it.

Either way, whatever he's doing is working. They're playing in the eastern conference finals, and it's been back and forth wins. Tonight is game seven. 

I knew Maxwell before he was a star. I remember the days he would talk about making it where he is now. When he would talk about taking me with him...

I busy myself with the wave of people that's come in, trying, like I always do when it's game night, to clear my mind. I enjoy when this place is full and I don't have to look up to the screen. It always hurts a little.

He looks like a god when he plays. Dark hair faded on the sides and long on top. Muscles out of this world. Tattoos on his arms and chest. The smirk he used to shoot my way that he now shoots at models in the stands. It pisses me off even more.

Because of this, my eyes stay on the task at hand. No need for me to get worked up, so I ignore it the best I can.

  "What can I get for you tonight?"

  "Corona and lime, please."

  I pop the top and grab the sliced lime, getting the man his drink in under thirty seconds before moving onto the next one.

                                                         *********************

  "Is it just me or is this place crazier than usual tonight?"

  I nod my head at Sabrina, in too much of a rush to answer. She's right. This place is packed out. The basketball game is tense, from what I keep overhearing. I've only dared to look once, sometime in the first quarter. Other than that, I've been too busy to even take a pee break.

  My hair has gone into a ponytail and sweat coats my forehead. Even though I'm not watching the game, I feel the energy of the room. Most people in here are glued to the TV. Some are pulling for Maxwell's team, a few are pulling for the other. It's getting hot in here, and not only because of all the people. You could slice the tension in the air with a butter knife.

  I make a vodka soda and a pour a shot of fireball. Rushing it over to the end of the bar, I hand it off to the girls and quickly turn to get the beer that was requested a few minutes ago I keep forgetting about.

  As I reach into the cooler, the entire place gasps collectively.

  It startles me, and I quickly look up to see what's happened. Everyone's eyes are on the game, so I dare a peak.

  My stomach flip-flops when I take in the screen.

  Maxwell is on the ground. The game has halted. He's on his side, clutching his arm to his chest. A medic rushes out. More silence, even from the commentators.

After another few breaths, he manages to get to his feet and walk off. They applaud him, as do people in the bar.

Before Maxwell is escorted into the locker room, the camera shows his face.

He's in pain, that much is evident. He's clutching his left arm, and I wince for him. He's left-handed. This isn't good.

For him to be in front of millions of people, looking damn near ready to cry, it's got to be painful. What I know that maybe not everyone else does, is that Maxwell can take a hit. He can handle a little pain.

Snapping out of my trance, I continue to serve people. I plaster a smile on my face, despite the fact that all anyone wants to talk about is what's going to happen to Maxwell Rossi.

Did you see that?

I can't believe it.

What a shame.

They're saying he might be out for the season.

Broken wrist, I think.  

Between the people and the TV, I can't escape.

The game comes to a close, and Maxwell's team loses. They're knocked out and won't be going to the finals.

"And a nail-biting game for New Orleans ends in an upsetting loss." The commentator says, "Rossi got injured, and we're hearing reports of a sprained wrist with a possible fracture. He will be okay, but what a devastating turn of events for the team. We all can't help but wonder, would the outcome have been different if Rossi would've stayed in?"

"I absolutely think it would've. What a devastating loss for New Orleans. I was sure they had this one in the bag."

I'm upset that a part of myself feels bad for Maxwell. I shouldn't. He doesn't deserve my sympathy.

Still, the teenage girl that remains tucked inside my twenty-two-year-old self hurts for the boy I once knew, who had big dreams to end up in the championship and win it.