“Breathtaking, but I still can’t forget October. The stadium chanting, ‘Big Country! Big Country!’ ” He tapped the side of his fists on the table, an amused gleam in his eyes. “Maybe next time you’ll keep your hands to yourself after bringing home those rings.”
Laughter bounced around the room. Everyone joined but me and LaShawn.
My knuckles flexed under the table, tendons strained. The memory of mybébé’skiss—rough and grounding—was the only thing stopping me from showing ‘em just how far they could push.
One more inch, and they’d learn Big Country wasn’t just a chant in the stands. A brand. He was flesh and blood. And men only bent so far before something broke.
zuri
. . .
The wealthiest men alive trickled out of the conference room as Montana approached me. My heart sank at the sight of his stoic expression. At his side, LaShawn wore a sharp sneer, which told me she went to bat for him.
My eyes searched his. “What happened?”
“They slapped me with sanctions. No public incidents. No threats. No looking at anybody sideways. They benched me.” The last words dripped with venom. “Til April.”
Benched? I glanced at LaShawn.
“He’s gotta sit out the entire spring training,” she murmured.
Passion burned behind Montana’s eyes. Instantly, I understood. The tenderness with which he taught Darius to catch a ball … that love distilled from passion.
LaShawn shrugged. “I thought … after I pulled out stats, just chatted with them—eye to eye. They’d …”
I glared at a Black man who just stepped out, some ex-NBA star, his suit a touch too tight across the shoulders. Two other executives flanked him like LeBron followers. Did they just mention hot chicken? Oh, the irony. And disrespect. If I were serving them, I’d make it so hot their future bloodlinesstarted fanning themselves. No sides, or cornbread, just salty-ass tea and pain.
Eyes locked on Montana, my voice rose for the trio who’d probably choke on a lemon pepper wing saturated in ranch. “Did you tell them about yourdad? You told them your story?”
“Your father?” One of the guy’s brows lifted to his sloppy toupee.
Montana’s glare dropped on me like a brick to the chest. My stomach clenched, and his expression faded to neutral.
“While I ain’t tryna be a statistic,” Montana said, “and there are some damn good fathers where I come from, I ain’t got no daddy.”
He and ex-not-on-LeBron’s-level shared a glance, while the other two Dodger owners licked their lips, their minds on chicken.
Zuri … don’t. This is Montana’s story to tell …
But Montana hadn’t taken their punishment well.
Besides, my mouth had other plans.
“Ezekiel is his father.”
A few more execs slipped out of the room, eyes on us.
“You haven’t seen him in years?” This from Never-skilled-like-LeBron.
Montana roughed a hand over his face. “Ezekiel put hands on my mom. She came to her senses when my brother Washington?—”
“Ah, the judge.” This from Navy Blue Suit, voiced with esteem.
Yes!They cared … somewhat.
“Wash did something stupid,” Montana said.
That’s not all!“Washington stabbed him with a knife,” I said.
