Chapter 15 Maverick
CHAPTER 15
MAVERICK
W e may not be on home court, but this feels like home.
No matter what arena we’re in, there’s nothing like watching a nail-biter with my father. Even though he’s no longer an assistant coach, he’s still on edge every time the Vipers play. He won’t relax before the buzzer.
“What’s Paulson thinking?” Pop grits out, standing so close to the plexiglass of the luxury suite box his breath fogs it up. “He needs to switch forty-three. He can’t guard August West, and that boy’s gonna drain threes all night if we let him get hot.”
It’s great seeing my father reinvigorated in a way he hasn’t been since we lost my mother. Losing her was the earthquake that shook and destroyed his foundation. At first he didn’t even try to dig himself out from under the rubble. With the possibility of me owning the team he’s devoted so much of his life to, it seems like he’s finally starting to reemerge.
Improbably, the Vipers are in the Western Conference playoffs, thanks mainly to the president of basketball operations, who came to my father on the low seeking advice the last few years. He followed Pop’s recommendations on a new head coach, how to take advantage of a few high-draft picks and trades in the offseason. The results? Vegas Vipers versus the San Diego Waves in a franchise-defining series.
I’m definitely tuned into the game, but I have a broader agenda tonight. Being here in this box is a strategic show of intention and strength to Andy Carverson, the current majority owner of the Vipers and part of the good ol’ boy network that blocked my father’s aspirations at every turn. I’m here to remind him that soon I’ll be calling the shots as the new majority owner. That I—the kid who used to collect dirty towels and pass around Gatorade and do whatever grunt work they found for me—am going to buy the team that has been in his family for decades right from under him.
He’s mismanaged the organization and he’s mismanaged his money. The man is not poor by any means, but the Vipers are now valued in billions, not millions. Publicly, Andy claims he simply wants to free up some of his holdings so he can reallocate funds for his family’s estate planning. Privately, it’s a different story. He’s still worth more than 99 percent of the world’s population will see in a lifetime, but wealth is relative. Tying up this much money is a luxury when there are other investments that could make him more money faster and easier.
I bided my time, getting my finances in order so that when the perfect moment presented itself, I’d be ready. Selling the True Playahs app wasn’t a difficult decision. It was a calculated one that I’d been planning for years. This team, my father’s legacy, was the endgame. And none of the people who stood in his way will stand in mine.
The door to the suite opens and Andy Jr. walks in, looking ridiculous wearing a Vipers jersey over his dress shirt and pants. How a man who lives in Vegas has a complexion so devoid of color has always mystified me. He’s so pale, you’d think he lives in Alaska.
“Christopher,” Andy says, extending his hand to my father first with false deference. “So good to see you.”
Assessing Andy shrewdly, Pop extends his hand after a slight hesitation. “AJ, how you doing?”
He’s been calling Andy that since he was a college student. He knows it gets under the other man’s skin.
“I’m good,” Andy replies through a tight smile. He can only fake humility for so long before his privilege starts to show. “Glad to see you.”
He turns his attention to me. “Checking out the investment, Mav?”
“Just enjoying the game.” I gesture to the buffet of food laid out and the fully stocked bar. “Can I offer you anything?”
“I have my own box,” he replies testily. “And my own food. I just wanted to come by and say hello.”
“Ahhh, of course.” I walk over to the bar and grab a bottle I brought in myself just for him. “Have a drink with me, though?”
“Is that…” He frowns at the red bottle of liquor I’m holding. “Is that Macallan 60?”
“It is.” I reach for a glass. “Maybe one drink.”
I can tell he wants it. One bottle from the Macallan Red Collection—sixty years old, sixty thousand dollars, and goes down smooth as silk. I’m not one to toss my weight around, to intimidate people with wealth… unless they need reminding, and if there’s ever anyone who needed reminding that our positions in this game have swapped since I was the kid scurrying around the stadium, and he was his daddy’s favorite, it’s this man right here.
“Like I said,” Andy replies, his voice as sharp as his jaw. “I have my own box. We’re close to wrapping things up, I think. Just remember you may become the majority owner, but the deal is contingent on my continued involvement and a seat on the board.”
“Why do you feel the need to remind me of that?” I ask, allowing a small smile. “You’ve stipulated it since the beginning of our negotiations. I’ve never had a problem with it.”
At least not one that I’ve voiced to him. Of course I’d rather evict him from the organization altogether. He and the friends he’s entrenched in the leadership and front office are the reason the Vipers had back-to-back losing seasons in the past. I will change that. And to rub it in their faces, I’ll use my father to help me do it.
“Just making sure,” Andy replies, adjusting the knot of his tie beneath the jersey. Goofy shit. “I better get back to my box. My family’s there.”
You mean the wife you cheat on and your kid who periodically posts on social media how much she despises you? I’m sure they’re waiting with open arms.
“Thanks for coming by,” I say instead and proffer the Macallan 60 again. “Sure you don’t want one for the road?”
“Uh, no,” Andy answers tersely. “We’ll talk soon. Enjoy the game. I think we might pull this one out.”
Once he leaves, my shoulders relax and the fist in my pocket unclenches. My body always reminds me that man is not to be trusted.
“’Bout damn time he cleared out,” my father mumbles into his beer, eyes still trained on the court.
The door to the box opens and I turn, prepared to ask Bolt what took him so long. He saw an old classmate and went down to meet him. He knows I would have been fine if he’d invited him up to the box, but Bolt is very discreet. Most of his friends don’t even know he works for me. I’m not someone who flaunts and neither is he. Zere’s penchant for flaunting, for making sure everyone knew what she had, what I had, is one of the things I don’t miss about our relationship.
When Bolt walks in, he’s not alone.
“Kenan fucking Ross,” I say, a wide smile breaking out over my face. “Bruh, what’s up?”
The retired future Hall of Famer gives me dap, towering over me by a good five inches and over Bolt by even more.
“Ran into this one,” Kenan says, his smile white against his brown skin. “And he thought you wouldn’t mind seeing your boy.”
My assistant and I share a lightning-quick glance. If Bolt brought Kenan to me, he probably sees an angle that I don’t recognize yet, but will soon.
“Chill with us for a bit.” I gesture to the oversized leather captain seats facing the game. “Come watch the Vipers whip your team’s ass.”
Kenan sketches a good-natured grin and sits. “We both know that ain’t happening tonight.”
I glance meaningfully from the tied score displayed on the board to the ex–power forward who ended his storied career in a Waves uniform.
“Just watch.” Kenan crosses one long leg over the other. “West’ll come out blazing after the half.”
“We’ll see.” I shrug a little too casually. “Not like I have an actual dog in the fight.”
Kenan Ross’s basketball IQ is legendary, and it’s matched by his astuteness off the court.
“That’s not the word on the street,” he says, sliding me a shrewd glance.
“What you hear?” I ask.
“My sources tell me you’re buying the Vipers.”
“Hmmm.” My monosyllabic grunt is all he’s getting for now. “Are those the same sources that tell me you’re in the market for ownership, too?”
“Not majority stake. Too rich for my blood, but I never tried to hide that I wanted more skin in the game.” Some of his humor fades. “This is our game. With all the brothers we have playing, I want to see more of us in front offices, leading organizations and owning teams.”
“Agreed. So you got your eye on a piece of the Waves?”
“I’m working on something, but I have a feeling my path is a lot easier than yours. They don’t just give majority ownerships away. And I ain’t talking about money.”
“If it were easy, more of us would do it. Most of the shit I’ve done hasn’t come easy.”
“You ready to deal with Andy Jr. and them good ol’ boys?”
“The better question is are they ready to deal with me?” I keep my face neutral until Kenan chuckles and shakes his head, prompting me to yield a matching smile.
“Let me know if I can help,” he says.
“Same. If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
“I better get back down there.” Kenan stands and so do I. “My wife and her cousin are courtside.”
“That’s August’s wife, right?”
“Yup. Iris has their two kids with her and Lotus has our little girl. It’s a full-on estrogen production and I needed a break,” he says, belying the words with a proud grin. “But my wife is not above coming to find me if I’m gone too long.”
“Give them both my best,” I say, walking him to the exit of the box.
Once the door closes behind him, I turn to find Bolt watching me. We say a lot without words for a few seconds before he finally breaks the silence.
“We should keep him close,” Bolt says. “He could help down the road.”
“Agreed.” I pat his shoulder approvingly. “Thanks for bringing him by.”
I walk over to stand by my father at the glass.
“Game’s tied,” he says, eagerness lighting his face. “Paulson’s doing pretty good tonight. The guys are holding their own.”
“I’m glad. The less of a mess we have to clean up when we get there, the better.”
“Fuck outta here,” my father yells, pounding a fist to the plexiglass. “Did you see that? Offensive foul? I could make a better call blindfolded! You gotta be…”
He rubs a hand over his mouth and expels his annoyance in a harsh breath.
“And you know West ain’t gon’ miss,” I say, watching one of the league’s brightest players take his spot at the free-throw line.
But he does miss.
“Ball don’t lie,” my father crows. “That’s what you get for that shit call.”
West does make the second shot, but there’s no time to do more than a full-court throw before the buzzer sounds to end the first half.
It’s a huge game. We, the underdog of the playoffs, are the only thing standing between the Waves advancing toward their first championship. They’d still have to beat the Eastern Conference champ, but neither of the two teams fighting it out on the other side of the country match well against West and the Waves. This is game two. We lost the first game, but if we can steal this one on their home court before we head back to Vegas for game three, our odds get better.
Nobody believes the Vipers can pull it off, but the arena is packed with people who want to watch us try. A game like this draws lots of celebrities wanting to see and be seen in their floor seats. Ironically, most of the ones who make it to the jumbotron were at our last party in Miami.
“What’s she doing here?” Bolt blurts, his tone sharp with something that sounds like excitement. He joins us and presses his palm flat to the plexiglass.
I follow his line of vision to the jumbotron. The camera is focused on Chapel, who blows a kiss and uses her beer to toast the cheering crowd. Seated to Chapel’s left is Skipper, who grins and flashes a peace up, A Town down. That’s the “she” in Bolt’s question, but I’m much more interested in the woman seated to Chapel’s right.
Hendrix isn’t looking at the camera, seemingly unaware or uncaring about her companions’ on-screen byplay. She’s frowning down at her phone, one corner of her mouth trapped between her teeth. Her hairstyle is different from the last time I saw her. It’s that Zoe Kravitz-esque combination of loose hair and braids. Some is gathered into a knot atop her head and the rest rains over her shoulders and arms. She’s wearing dark jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with Dark & Lovely in sparkling letters. With her head bent and fingers flying over the keypad, she looks like she’d rather be somewhere else.
I should give her somewhere else to be.