“That was you?”
Everybody knows the story about Dough’s cousin, but nobody knows the details. All we know is that the world changed—not him.
“That was me.” Blake nods. “From gangbanger to Falcons poster boy. Not many can say they turned a gang into a movement, a street soldier into a civilian, a boy into a man.”
I inhale the hotel’s cold, dry air.
“Maybe next they’ll say Harvey and Lee broughtThe Kidback from obscurity—from social pariah back to the Messiah of basketball. We’ll bring the crown back to where it rightfully belongs. I can make your wildest dream come true.”
“How the fuck do you know what my wildest dream is?”
“I think your Pops tells your story the best. What was that he told Sage Steele when you hit that buzzer beater? ‘The kid was born with a basketball in his hand. It’s no doubt he’ll be larger than life. I made sure he’d be larger than I ever was. He’s destined for the NBA.’”
My throat itches and I know it’s nobody but Mom reminding me she tells my story the best. Even better than Pops.
“Fuck a basketball. You was born with the world in your hands,”she said.“That’s worth more than any basketball could ever be.”
“I’m good on that right now.”
“Come on, your Pops told me you wanted this conversation. Don’t tell meThe Kid’sbacking down from a challenge.”
“Yeah, one that’s not worth it.”
“Man, didn’t I just tell you I have droves of white kids claiming Thirty gang when they have no clue what that shit is? You’re going to let your Pops down just like that? I can change the narrative for you.”
“How you plan to do that?”
He shrugs and the lights bounce from the city’s skyline to his eyes. “You of all people should know that I can’t give away the game for free, but I’ll do you and your Pops a solid and keep those pictures of you and babygirl from hitting Getty. I know a guy who knows a guy on their media team. Think of this as an advance because once one of those Instagram bloggers gets ahold of them, it’s game over for you. There’s nothing the world is more curious about than a dude they claim to hate. If you had a publicist, you’d know that.”
He winks and I can see the horror on Phat’s face if shit ever went down that way because she’s fragile.
“An advance would insinuate we have a working relationship and we don’t,” I reply.
“Yet.”
“If this is how you conduct business, we’ll never have one.”
“Not too fast. I think you need me just as much as I need you. You have a legacy to protect. I could always let those beautiful step and repeat pictures get out and tomorrow babygirl can wake up with her face plastered on Instagram blogs. Think she’ll stick around after that? Doesn’t seem like she’s planning a wedding anytime soon, like a normal jersey chaser.” He reaches out and slaps my shoulder without looking at me. “I’m in town for a couple of weeks. Got the 911 gassed up for you to take it for a spin. I’ll let you get back to your date. I’m sure she’s missing you, Kid.”
* * *
Phat wigglesher fingers underneath the moonlight. “Hakeem Olajuwon touched this hand. I ain’t never washing it again.”
“Dutty gyal.” Gus chuckles, blowing a plume of smoke from the joint I gave him earlier in the day.
The warmth from the truck’s hood burns my shirtless back as I stare up at the moon while their voices stroke my eardrums that Blake Harvey assaulted with his fucked up fancy words—Tarnish. Legacy.
My thoughts hadn’t stopped since we left Pops at the Hilton and hit the Shipley’s drive-thru for Phat’s bear claws. Blake texted me as soon as she leaned over my lap to scream into the drive-thru speaker with my scent on her.
2128045609: I got those pictures taken care of for you. Your Pops was appreciative. You can repay me with that drive.
Now my brain keeps running in a constant loop of tarnished legacies, broken NBA dreams, and a perfect girl.
I look back at them.
“Pshh. Dirty shmirty.” Phat waves a hand, bouncing next to me on the hood of the truck with her gown bunched at her waist. “Wait until I tell Marcus that I breathed the same air as The Dream. He gon' flip the fuck out.”
“Lemme meh see dat hand,” Gus says, turning around with the joint hanging between his lips.
