“It’s cold.” She groans from beside me in bed.
“I turned the heat up. It’s only seventy outside.”
“Turn it up higher.”
“I can’t. I’m already sweating.”
Her bald head peeks from under her blanket and I wish I had the second part of Ace—the strong one. That one knows everything about Mama like what medicine she should and shouldn’t take, what food she should eat, and deep down I know he’d know why she’s been hot for two days even though her brain keeps making her think she’s cold.
I pull the throw blanket Lucy crocheted from the edge of the bed and drape it over her wet body. “How’s that?”
“It’s alright...” Her voice drifts off.
It’s been doing that a lot—drifting in and out while I lay next to her watching ESPN, TMZ, and trying to keep my hands busy so they won’t keep trolling the internet for that article I couldn’t escape.
I turn back to the TV just in time to catch Shannon Sharpe grinning at the camera.
“There’s something rumbling down in Texas, Skip. Somethingbig,” he rasps.
They flash an old picture of Ace behind Shannon and Skip. He’s smiling on the court in his blue and yellow jersey, gripping a basketball in his hand. It’s the old Ace I didn’t know. The one who still had Angie.
I sit up against the cold brass bars on Mama’s headboard, waiting on Shannon to finish what he started.
“We need to talk about Ason Williams Jr. or lil’ AWII, as I always liked to call him,” he adds.
This is the third part to Ace — the one the world can’t get enough of—especially sports reporters.
Shannon pats his broad chest and wrinkles his eyebrows like he’s trying to come up with the perfect words to describe the wonder that Ace is on the court.
“I mean, talk aboutnotmissing a beat. It’s been two years since we’ve seen this kid and he’s still dominating. Three games into the season and he’s putting up NBA numbers… but he’s doing it at an HBCU... on a team that ain’t made noise in years. Thirty points, twelve rebounds, ten assists. This kid is still something else, Skip. Heisstill something else. The athleticism, the grit, the authority on the court. Watching him is like watching his Pops. It’s something special. We talk a lot about generational talent, but can we honestly say we’ve seen generational talent as good as this?”
Skip Bayless looks down and pushes his ear piece up before tugging at his suit jacket. All of those innocent things make my stomach hurt because I know what’s coming.
“Shannon...” He squirms in his seat. “I can agree that the kid oozes pure talent. He’s athletic, he has grit,butthere’s an important conversation that needs to be had here and I want to be mindful of how I address this situation because it’s—it’s delicate.”
Thisis the part I hate.
Watching overpaid, well-dressed characters dissect one part of Ace is as addicting as scrolling down my Twitter timeline.
“How much more off the court bad behavior will we continue to ignore from this kid simply because of his athleticism and who his father is? For years we heard nothing from him except one-off incidents like smoking weed or accounts from strangers talking about their random run-ins with AW’s son out in LA. The kid refused to talk to the media—”
“Let’s be clear, Skip. He still doesn’t talk to them. Everything we’re fed about him is pieced together from reporters or leaked to the press and let’salsobe clear that this young man lost his mother last year, who I’m sure was a huge pillar of strength in his life.”
“Her name is Angie,” I mutter. “And she was, you dumbasses.”
Talking to a television is hopeless. They can’t hear me explain to them that Angie was more than a pillar of strength. She was Ace’s world.
“I completely understand and empathize.” Skip holds up his hands. “You’re right. But let’s not forget the Bruins suspended him indefinitelybeforehis mother’s death. So this behavior pre-dates that. Yet he somehow made it as a walk-on at Lockwood, no doubt thanks to his father. He gets there and right before the season starts, we’re bombarded withmorebad behavior.”
He raises his eyebrow. “Punching his agent? The guy that has the potential to get him to the NBA despite his bad reputation? I mean, this kid can’t stay outta trouble. I wanna say, ‘poor little rich kid,’ but this feels like something deeper, Shannon—”
Loud knocks on the front door interrupt Skip’s rant.
I suck my teeth like Gus. “That messy ass nigga ain’t nobody’s agent.”
One side of my brain wants to hear how Skip will villainize Ace, while the other side is at capacity. It can’t absorb anymore outside opinions about Ace without his reassurance that he’s nothing like the world says he is because I’mstilltoo busy running from all that trust Marcus said he worked so hard building for us.
“The door...” Mama huffs.
