I don’t hate her.
I don’t want her punished for being unwell.
But I won’t let her orbit us.
Twelve years ago, I made the wildest, best decision of my life.
Today, I’m making a quieter one.
I’m staying.
And I’m building the kind of life that doesn’t fracture under pressure.
April doesn’t ease in.It arrives loud and bright and full of implication.
The last day of the regular season has a different kind of electricity to it, even before you factor in the fact that yesterday morning, I stood at a podium and told the world I’m done.
Not done playing basketball—there’s still the postseason ahead of us. But done with this being my life. Done with waking up every October knowing it will chew through another year of my body and spit out something slightly more worn.
The announcement dropped at 10:00 a.m. yesterday. It was clean and controlled and focused on my gratitude, timing, and the truth about my shoulder.
It still feels strange that the retirement isn’t tangled up with anything ugly.
No scandal. No shame. No running. Just choice.
The locker room smells the same as it always does—liniment, clean cotton, faint sweat embedded in wood. But today there’s something under it. A hum. A current.
“Old man!” Lemar calls from across the room the second I walk in. “You stretching yet, or are we wheeling you out?”
I roll my eyes and toss my bag onto my chair. “I’ll outlast you.”
“Not according to your press conference,” he shoots back.
A couple of guys laugh good-naturedly. It’s light and easy.
That’s the part I didn’t expect.
I thought the announcement might shift something. Make the room heavier. Make it feel like a farewell tour.
Instead, it feels… celebratory.
Coach claps his hands once to get attention. “All right. Focus up.”
We gather loosely near the whiteboard. The game tonight technically doesn’t change our playoff seeding, but nobody’s treating it like an exhibition.
“This is still our house,” Coach says. “I don’t care what the standings look like.” His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than usual. “And we finish strong.”
There’s a ripple of agreement.
Cassius bumps my shoulder lightly. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You look like you’re trying not to smile.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
