When I push the keys in the ignition and the car revs to life, it’s almost like I’mthatKidagain.
“I had to. Your girl called me out.” He laughs as I pull out of the parking spot. “You know my dad would say she’s a spitfire.”
“Yeah... she something like that.” I grab the solo cup from his hand and take a sip that feels too good.
“Tell me about her. What all she know?”
“She knows to be a good girl for me, to mind her brother, and to take care of her mom. That’s allyouneed to know.”
“Come on...” he blubbers out. “Don’t give me that evasive ass answer. I’m not a gossip blogger, dawg. I wanna know more about this lil’ fling you got going on. It’s gotta be real, right? She’s still around.”
He glances at the Dum-Dums, picking one up and rolling it between his fingers.
“Ain’t no fling going on. Didn’t I tell you to leave her out—”
“Look, man, I’m just giving you the preview before the main show.”
“Huh?” I stop at a red light, whipping my head over to him.
“The 1942 already got you hypnotized? I got another advance for you, brother—better than the Getty one.”
Only a sports agent could dress up manipulation and make it as enticing as a reporter could. I always wondered if their bad habits developed over time like mine or if they were just born fucked up.
“So, what’s this one about?”
“Twitter.”
“What about Twitter?”
He shifts in his seat and pushes his hand into his pocket, pulling his cellphone out. A horn blares from behind us as he holds it in front of me like he did the keys. There’s a Word document on the screen—a long one — but that’s not the important part. The headline is.
“‘IsThe Kidback on the rebound after his flagrant foul in Malibu?’” he reads, sliding his finger under each word. “Clever headline, fucked up subject.”
The horn blares again and I slam my foot on the gas, zooming off.
“Easy. Babygirl would kill me if you get pulled over with that cup in your hand. We not working with LAPD here.”
“What is that?”
“It’s an article.”
“Nigga... I know that. Where’d you get it and what does it say?”
“Well, I can’t tell you where I got it, but Icantell you what it says.” He glances at his phone while I down another mouthful of tequila.
“Slow down. I ain’t even started yet.”
“Read that shit,” I grit out.
“Maybe you should buckle up first. This may be a long ride.”
The narrow-eyed stare I give him makes him hold his hands up in surrender and he reads.
“‘After a lifetime of social media silence, basketball aficionados that hang out in the Twittersphere woke up to a pleasant surprise six weeks ago—the return ofThe Kidbetter known as Ason ‘Ace’ Williams Jr. The mysterious baller is known for his notoriously mum media presence and most recently—controversy. However, us diehard, basketball-heads know that in the land before egregious accusations,The Kidwas something like a silent icon known for his rare captionless drippy Instagram flicks and hubris on the court. So why the sudden reemergence after so long? I think I found the answer, and it has nothing to do with basketball.’”
There’s a deep burning in my throat when I glance over at Blake’s smug expression while he reads the mouthful of addicting corniness some reporter typed up.
“In late August,The Kid’ssleepy timeline suddenly woke up with a strange change of location—Planet Ace? Afterward, a tweet appeared, and I immediately picked up the phone to call my colleague, Dave Burns. Together we cross-referenced the tweet with rap lyrics, did a deep-dive intoThe Kid’spre-controversy interests, but alas we ended back where we started—with a tweet that had no context until Dave pointed out thatThe Kid’sfollowing count had changed. It’s number jumped from five to an uncharacteristic eight.”
