CHAPTER TWO
JORDAN
“Show me a man with friends, and I’ll show you a man with one too many opinions and assholes.”
—North the Woodsman, Ravaged Lands
“While there are several things I’d do for you as your attorney—some of those things riding the line of impropriety—braiding your hair isn’t one of them.”
I arch an eyebrow at Cyrus Hart, one of my best friends and my attorney, who’s sprawled out on the couch in my Narnia man cave. And no, I’m not exaggerating. You can access the specially built walkout basement room only through a massive-ass wardrobe in a spare room on the first floor. Yeah, I get a lot of shit about it from my boys. But I don’t give a fuck.
When a child whose only means of escape wereThe Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobeand basketball grows up to be a man with more money than he ever dreamed of possessing, he indulges in every fantasy that makes him happy. And that’s not just limited to homes with personal movie theaters and basketball courts or dirty sex.
That man builds a secret entrance to his own magical world—or an over-the-top man cave. Same difference. I left nothing out when designing this haven inside my haven. HDTV that takes up nearly one wall. Surround sound that’d put a cinema to shame. A bar fully stocked with everything from local IPAs to top-shelf liquor. A separate TV screen for gaming along with classic arcade machines. A library with its shelves overflowing with books. A private entrance to a walled patio, firepit, and barbecue area. Custom-made leather furniture. The most important feature.
When you’re six-foot-nine, average-size couches and recliners won’t do. I promised myself when I was a six-foot-plus high schooler trying to squeeze my overlarge frame into those one-size-does-not-fit-all desks that when I made it to the NBA—I never once doubted I would—never again would I have to wear someone’s ill-fitting hand-me-downs. Whether it was clothes, tennis shoes, or state-issued desks.
“The hell you say. As much as I pay you, you’ll braid my hair, then tell me how pretty I am,” I say to Cyrus, jabbing a finger in his direction before rounding the back of the couch and sinking down on the far end, resenting the flash of pain that burns a path up my inner left thigh.
I breathe through it, deliberately stretching my arm along the back of the sofa, forcing my fingers to remain straight while that ache radiates like a homing beacon in my thigh and groin. Anger as hot as the pain beats meaty fists against my rib cage. But I cuff the fists, smothering the rage. When I’m alone, when I don’t have an audience, maybe then I’ll let it go. Maybe. I swallow a snort.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
Not myself. I haven’t “let go” since I was eight and witnessed the harm losing control of my temper, of myself, caused. Not the busted lip and black eye Greg Hanson sported after I got through with him. Naw, that little shit deserved every punch I rained down on him for calling my mother out her name. The harm came when Mom showed up in the vice principal’s office to pick me up to start my three-day suspension.I’ll never forget how disappointed, howtiredshe looked. On that day, for the first time in my life, I’d felt like a burden to her. So no, in that small crowded office smelling of Lysol and the french fries Mr.Harrison must’ve had for lunch, I’d learned to control my temper.
“Well, you can’t touch mine.” Daniel Granger, my friend and teammate, smooths a hand over his own long, intricately braided hair. “No shade, but I don’t trust that you know what to do with it. I will let you call me pretty, though.” He grins from his sprawl in my recliner.
And I have to admit it. The motherfucka is pretty.
“That’s fair.” Cyrus shrugs. But the casual gesture belies his too-intense and penetrative stare. I don’t like it. I’m not on the stand or under cross-examination. “Why’d you lie to Miriam about me being here?”
“Right, the famous—or should I sayinfamous—Miriam I’ve heard so much about but haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet,” Daniel adds, lifting his beer bottle up for a sip. Because it’s the basketball season, it’ll be the only beer he’ll allow himself tonight. Daniel’s that strict with what goes in his body. “Esquire here asks a good question,” he continues. “What’s up with not letting her know you have company? Didn’t want her to be jealous about our spending so much time with him?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.”
Of course that’s not it, and judging by the arch of his eyebrow, he knows it. But damn if I’m sharing that my pride wouldn’t allow me to admit it to Miriam. I’m well aware what she thinks of me. A good-natured, playful manwhore who never met a party he didn’t crash. Part of me resents that as my friend, she hasn’t looked deeper,seenmore. But the other half ... the other half is relieved because it’s content that she believes in that facade rather than perceiving that truth. The humiliating truth that I’m afraid to be alone. That when I am, my thoughts plunge into a freezing dark abyss where I have trouble clawing myself free. I’ve never liked being by myself—I’ve always hated the silence. Noise, people, distractions. They beat back the engulfing, dangerous quiet.
“On a scale of one, I could play tomorrow, to ten, I’m barely hanging on, how’s your pain?” Daniel murmurs.
I grit my teeth, everything in me snapping at him to “Let it fucking go.” But he’s more than my friend, a word that’s thrown around so loosely in my world but rarely meant. He’s my mentor. He took me under his wing when I joined the Nuggets when he could’ve let me stumble my way through that rookie year. No one would’ve blamed him. I was an arrogant lil bitch. But he saw past that rough exterior, and he and his wife accepted me like family. And when you’ve been considered a star athlete since middle school and a commodity even before stepping foot in college, that term takes on more significance. He’s one of the few people I can honestly claim to trust. So no, I won’t tell him to fuck off.
But damn if I ain’t thinking it.
“Four, I don’t know what the big deal is and I’ve played through worse,” I answer because again, friend.
But I don’t add that it’s a four only because I’ve iced the hell out of my thigh and have it bandaged so tightly King Tut is somewhere out there sporting a hard-on over my wrap game. Not to mention I popped my prescribed naproxen.
My fingers involuntarily curl before my brain can send a signal to stop that tell. Barbed disgust wraps around my stomach, tightening, digging deep. I hate drugs. Of any kind. It makes me feel weak to depend on anything other than my own strength and will to get through this injury.
“The big deal is if you return too soon, you’ll cause more harm and end up spending even more time recovering and not playing. Would you rather be out another month or four months? Maybe more? Following the doctor and physical therapist’s orders could mean the difference between weeks and half your season.” Cyrus jabs a finger at me from the end of the couch, eyes narrowed.
“You think I don’t know this? That I haven’t heard the exact same thing from Coach and the team doctors? But no one knows my bodybetter than me.” I thump a fist on my chest. The chest that’s suddenly as tight as the pair of Spanx my mother would climb into whenever she pulled on her “feel-good” dresses for nights out with my aunts. “That makes me the better judge.”
“Actually, it makes you the worst judge,” Daniel says with a shrug. “Are you missed? Yes, and we’ll be damn glad to have you back. But you’ll be no good to us if you return too soon only to reinjure yourself and have to be out even longer.”
“You being the better judge. That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Cyrus says, and I want to shove him off my couch for that comeback and the casual tone it’s delivered in. The ass even has the nerve to cock an eyebrow. “You’re not unbiased when it comes to this, and you have an agenda.”
“And the team doesn’t have theirs?” I scoff. “You’re my attorney, and I’ve seen you in action, so I know you’re not that naive.”
