“Yep. I’ll see you then, man.”
“See you then.”
The call ends and I blow out a breath in frustration. Something still feels a little off with him, but I told myself I’d take him at face value. I’ve lost enough time worrying about things I can’t control.
As I turn onto my street, my blood pressure starts to drop. Home. The place I don’t get to spend nearly enough time at, but maybe that’s what makes it so sweet every time I pull into my garage. I live in one of the posher suburbs of Mistone, Crestvale, and in one of the better neighborhoods near the city center. I’m close enough to walk places when I want to, but far enough away to feel a semblance of privacy. Fortunately, my neighbors are all high-profile people too, so I’m pretty much left alone unless I venture too far from home.
My detached townhome reminds me of the Brooklyn brownstones I always wanted to live in when I was a teen and first saw them on TV. I had a similar place in Philly before the trade, and finding this one helped me feel like I could make a home here. And I have.
Mostly.
It’s too quiet and dark, but that’s what you get when you’re a closeted athlete who refuses to drag an unsuspecting woman into his mess. At my age, most of my peers are married and have at least a couple of kids. They live in more residential areas, in houses with fences and yards and dogs. I bet when my teammates get home tonight their houses will be lit up and warm, with people inside excited to see them.
Stepping out of my car, I shake my head. I’m fantasizing again when I know the cold, hard reality of a professional athlete’s life. A lot of the guys are miserable when we have a streak of away games because they miss what they left behind. Others fuck around on their wives. Still others fill the empty spaces with drugs or alcohol. Not that I don’t have my vices, but mine require a lot more discretion.
My cell phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I hurry to grab it in case it’s Boone with the actual truth, but my teammate’s name lights up on the screen.
“Andres. What’s up, man?”
“Where are you?” he slurs into the phone. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
I snicker. “Dude. I left, like, forty minutes ago.”
“Whaaaatt? Yo, he’s not even here,” he yells to someone in the background.
“I already told you that,” Hen yells back. “He needs his beauty sleep.”
Andres snorts a laugh. “Gotta stay pretty, Bouche.”
“You okay, man?”
“Mm, yeah. Was gonna talk to you about something, but it can wait.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, man. Totally. I didn’t know you left. Why didn’t you say goodbye?”
“I don’t remember seeing you.”
“Oh.” He huffs, mumbling under his breath. “Friday, then?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you Friday. You good?”
“Yep.”
I hear some rustling and mumbled voices, then, “I got him, man.” Hen.
“Okay, great. Sounds like he’s having a fun night.”
“Or something,” Hen says. “He’s been putting the shots down. He’s gonna be hating life in the morning.”
“I remember those days. No fucking thanks.”
“Right? Alright, man. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“See ya, Hen.”
Ending the call, I step into my house through the garage door then close it behind me. It’s unusual for Andres to call me, so my curiosity is piqued about what he could possibly want to talk to me about, but then again, younger players come to me all the time for advice. Maybe the alcohol loosened him up enough to finally ask me something.
