one
Colson
Thesunseemstoshine brighter in Golden Harbor, Michigan—and I fucking hate it. I try to pull the blinds down, but they don’t stick and immediately roll back up, leaving the window exposed. Kind of like the blinds are giving me the middle finger, acting like nothing more than a magnifying glass for the rays to beam in.
I wish it’d rain. What I’d pay for massive, gray thunderclouds. The kind that rolls in, completely unexpectedly, and shuts the sun up with sheets of rain. One that feels like the start of a storm, catching everyone off guard.
Rubbing my forehead and trying to block the sun, I wish I would’ve stopped about three bourbons before I did last night. The light feels like a punishment, one I probably deserve.
On cue, my shoulder starts to throb. Being hung over on an eight hour drive where the sun was inescapable wasn’t enough. Sure, I could’ve flown, but that would’ve taken a plan. Thinking ahead. Something I’ve not been good at as of late.
Opening the cabinets, the yellow paint hits me and the room starts to spin. Is it the crippling hangover or being back here? Well,beinghere. I only was here once—when I gave it to my mom for her birthday. Me, my mom, and the interior decorators I hired to give her full creative control with this place.
When I was a kid, she always talked about us having a summer place up north. This would be during the times where things were the darkest—me having the last piece of bread with peanut butter on it while she acted like she wasn’t hungry. She’d be sitting down with me at the table during the few minutes she had between getting to her next shift. Her next job.
I looked for years, wanting to find something perfect for her. Once I had that solid and promised NBA money in my bank account, I was on the hunt.
That’s what brought me to Golden Harbor, Michigan. It’s early June; I should be in Chicago, wrapping up the NBA season with my team. But everything fell apart, or maybe I blew it up, and now I’m not sure where I belong.
Maybe it’s nowhere.
I pull out three rogue ibuprofens from my pants pocket, pop them in my mouth, and fill a glass with water from the tap. I need to dull the throb in my head and my shoulder.
Slowly, I go back and forth from the car to the guest bedroom, bringing my bags in. Feels fitting for the current state of my life: chaos incarnate, shoved into a suitcase and some duffel bags. I drop the last duffel on the bed—a queen mattress with some blush pink quilt I’m positive my mom picked out—and exhale like it took everything in me to carry it ten steps. My shoulder twinges again.
I grab the remote from the nightstand and hit the power button, needing noise. Any noise. Something to drown out the quiet of this place. The screen blinks to life and I look away, focusing on unzipping my suitcase, pretending I don’t hear the familiar theme music. But then—
“—former Chicago guard Colson Burke officially released this week after his on-court meltdown. GM is calling it conduct detrimental to the team—”
My spine goes rigid.
Another commentator jumps in, voice too bright for what he’s saying.
“—Burke hasn’t been seen with the team since the incident last week, and sources say the organization felt they had ‘no choice’—”
I freeze halfway through pulling out a stack of T-shirts. My throat goes dry, and the room tilts—not from the hangover this time.
The incident. It’s always said like that. Like it's some unspeakable crime instead of me doing what I thought was the right thing. Instead of me taking the heat so someone else wouldn’t lose everything.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at a knot in the floorboards while they talk about me like I’m not real.
“—a shame, really. Burke was the star of his draft class after bringing the first championship to his college. A massive contract a few years back. But at this level? Talent doesn’t outweigh drama—”
My jaw clenches so hard it aches.
Drama. Right. That’s what we’re calling it now.
Fuck, if they only knew. I can imagine the headlines if the truth ever came out. I’m sure my old coaching staff will do everything in their power to keep it where it belongs: locked away with no key to be found.
I reach for the remote, ready to shut it off, but my hand stops mid-air. Because part of me wants to hear it, to feel the sting. To know exactly how bad the fallout is. How far I’ve fallen.
“...some close to the situation say this could be the end of the road for Burke unless he seriously reevaluates…”
I click the TV off before they can finish the sentence. I can’t do it. Silence crashes back into the room. Heavy. Too heavy.
I let out a long breath, scrub a hand over my face, and stare at my open suitcase like it might offer some kind of answer. It’s just more evidence that I can’t handle whatever this all is. Being in the city felt all wrong. No one knows about this place, so I feel like I’m safe here—even if it’s only for a few days. Or however long I decide.
My mom would’ve told me to get up. Keep going. Well, after she verbally kicked my ass for my behavior. It doesn’t matter who was in the right or the wrong, she would hate to see me act like that. Hate towatch me be removed from the bench. Tossed like a piece of trash they no longer needed.
