The backlash was immediate.
Sponsors dropped within 72 hours. Fans flooded my mentions with snake emojis and trade demands. The front office stripped me of the captain’s band “to protect the locker room culture.”
I didn’t talk to media for months after that.
And when I did?
It was with rehearsed lines, PR-safe phrases, and a frozen smile that never quite reached my eyes.
Since then?
No real interviews.
No “off the record” bullshit.
No trust.
I gave the league their robot. Their perfectly packaged player with just enough grit and zero depth.
Then came her.
Daphne Sommers.
Sharp tongue. Sharp heels. Sharper instincts.
I’d expected more of the same—chasing drama, looking for blood, maybe angling for a new contract off my downfall.
But she didn’t twist my words.
She didn’t have to.
She hit me with them.
Called me a washed-up legend. Mocked the ego, poked at the legacy, dragged the spotlight to all the places I’d spent three years avoiding.
And somehow—it was better.
Because at least she was honest.
At least it was real.
She didn’t try to spin a headline. She didn’t shrink back when I pushed her. She stared me down like she wanted the whole picture, not just the part that fit the narrative.
And it stung, yeah.
Because she saw the cracks I thought I’d hidden under steel and stats and snark.
But she didn’t use them against me.
She didn’t lie.
That was new.
That was dangerous.
Because I could fight lies. I could shut down spin.
But truth?
