I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, so I stood there and waited to see if she would approach me. Speak or something. She turned her head and continued to talk to the girl she was with, so I assumed she was just another groupie wanting to get chose.
One of the players on the Bulls gave her a quick hug before heading over to go through the tunnel, so I stopped him. I didn’t want to leave anything to chance; I needed to be sure.
“Hey, who is that you just hugged?”
“Blaise? She’s our top sports anchor here.”
“Is that her last name?” He laughed like he couldn’t believe I didn’t know who she was.
“Naw. Her name is Blaise Monroe.” I looked at her again impressed. She was fine, but she wasn’t who I was looking for.
“Damn, nigga. How you don’t know Blaise? Maybe you should quit cursing out all the media and you would know who she is.” A Hispanic player from the Bulls said before laughing. He was about to lose that smile real quick. Reaching back, I punched him in the mouth. Everyone ran over when the fight broke out including the media.
“We both might be minorities, but don’t ever feel comfortable calling me no nigga.” Blaise looked at me disgusted, and that pissed me off more. Storming off, I walked into the locker room and coach was appalled. “Fine me. I got it.” That was all I said before walking off to shower.
I know the first chance they got, they was going to trade my ass. I was a shooting guard for the Miami Heat, and while I was the only reason our ass was a third seed, they was sick of my shit. I was deemed the bad boy of the league and it’s also how I got my name “The Mercenary”. In their eyes, all I gave a fuck about was myself and my contract I wasn’t a team player.
On top of that, I didn’t take shit off nobody. Media, teammates, or bitches. I seemed to stay in the media for negative reasons, but I never let it get to me. They never attempted to know the real me, and that was on them. Climbing on the bus, I sat down as I scrolled my phone. Videos of me fighting had already made it all over the internet.
“I don’t know how I’m here getting on the bus, since I didn’t show up.” One of my teammates was talking shit referencing my interview.
“We may as well sit on the bench and let Mighty Mercer play by himself.” Another teammate joined in, and I was trying my best not to send this bitch up.
“Mannn, I’m just here so I don’t get fined. He got it.” When I heard my nigga, Nock join in, I threw my headphones on and zoned out. They ass was offended, but nothing I said was wrong. I scored fifty eight of the seventy total points, and on top of that we lost to the Bulls. Yeah, I could have gone about it differently, but I was tired. This shit happened more frequently than not, and a nigga couldn’t keep playing like this. I would burn out quick, and I wasn’t trying to have the game retire me.
Closing my eyes, I thought about Blaise Monroe. She looked like a more mature and grown up version of Brianna. Shorty crossed my mind from time to time, and I had no idea why. I’ve had one night stands, but none of them was because the chick wanted it that way. I’ve never had a mufucka one and done me. They usually go out of their way to try and stick around because they see me as a meal ticket. She didn’t seem like the hoe type, or the kind of chick that was sexually free. Feeling my phone go off, I looked down at the screen.
A couple of my hoes texted me, but it was my moms text that had me falling out laughing. After the night I had, I needed that shit. She always seemed to know what to say. Even going through her own situation, she always made sure I was good. A couple of months ago, my moms had a stroke. Being on the road most of the time, I couldn’t be there for her like I wanted, so I hired around the care nursing.
I had real shit going on in my life, so I didn’t give a fuck what these mufuckas was talking about. Putting my phone up, I closed my eyes and tried to relax. Blaise crossed my mind again as I tried my best to erase the events from tonight from my mind.
3-BLAISE MONROE
“You ready to get out of the tub?”
“No mommy. I have to stay in five more minutes. It’s not eight yet. It has to be eight.” I could see my daughter Mila starting to get over stimulated, so I immediately tried to calm her.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t look at the time. You can have five more minutes. How was your day with TT Shaq?”
“Okay. Her hair is purple. Wouldn’t that be looked at as ghetto?” I grabbed the towel and got ready so I could pull her out at eight on the head.
“To some people, yes.” My sister Shaq was definitely the definition of ghetto, but she was absolutely proud of it. We didn’t have the best relationship when I was growing up. It wasn’t anything particular that happened, we were just two different kinds of people.
Where Shaq was wild, going to parties, and having sex with boys. I was studying, quiet, and reserved. Her being two years older than me probably made a difference, but I never cared to figure it out. We didn’t fuck with each other and I was okay with that. It wasn’t until Mila got diagnosed when she was three that Shaq started coming around. She was a big help because it was hard trusting people with my daughter. Most people don’t know how to or don’t want to deal with kids that have a condition. I was only able to be as successful as I am because of Shaq.
“What does prostitute mean, mommy?” I almost choked on my own spit and my eyes popped out of my head.
“Where did you get that from? Why are you asking me that?”
“TT said her boyfriend was treating her like a prostitute.” Cursing under my breath, I tried to find the right words.
“It means… Ummm, it’s when a man gives a woman money.” I could have waved the question off, but Mila was the kid that needs answers. She was diagnosed Autistic when she was three years old, but I always knew she had delays. My baby girl was wise beyond her years in a lot of ways, but sometimes, it wasn’t always a good thing.
“Oooh, mommy. You’re a prostitute. Daddy gives you money all the time.” I wanted to scream no baby, I’m not, but that would only open the door for more questions. “It’s eight.” Snapping out of my thoughts, I reached for her and pulled her out of the tub.
Cradling her to me, I carried her to the bed and grabbed her lotion. We had a routine, and I absolutely could not break it, or she would be thrown off. Grabbing her favorite lotion, I rubbed it over her body as she hummed the tune to five little monkeys over and over. When I was done, I got her dressed and placed her in the bed.
“Don’t forget to kiss my berry.” Smiling, I leaned down and kissed the strawberry shaped birthmark placed perfectly at her hairline. I never forgot, but she made sure to remind me every day. Making sure her nightlight was turned on, I headed towards the door.
