9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Bourbon, Benches + Aso Ebi
Luca
The morning light over Cinnamon Grove is deceptive. Because it’s soft and gentle. Nothing like the storm twisting in my chest.
Yesterday, after mediation with Aspen and her lawyers, I went to my teammate Declan’s house and drank myself into a stupor.
And since I rarely drink alcohol, I was very unpretty by the end of the night.
He had to call his driver to haul my sorry arse home early this morning so I’d be semi-upright for today’s meetings.
It’s barely past 10 A.M. and I’m trapped in my penthouse “working from home.” For a professional athlete, that’s just a fancy way of saying I’m taking Zoom calls from the one presentable corner of my apartment, reciting PR-scrubbed answers to media requests.
I spend the entire time pretending I don’t want to rip my own knee out of its socket every time a reporter asks how the healing process is going.
I tore my MCL during a crucial match, and between the physical injury, the relentless press fallout, and the absolute train wreck of my personal life, I’ve been benched. Literally. Figuratively. Emotionally.
So here I am. Sending emails from my “home office” with an ice pack strapped to my leg and my pride shattered across the headlines.
And still, all I can think about is her.
Apparently, I threatened to quit the team during my binge last night, so Declan called Coach Jones to come over and talk some sense into me. But no matter what he or anyone else says, nothing makes sense without her. Even if ending the marriage was my choice.
I’ve just ended a meeting with my agent and business manager when I let out an exasperated sigh. Coach Jones leans against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, watching me like I’m a grenade with the pin halfway out.
He’s not just my coach. Lately, he’s been the closest thing I’ve got to a friend.
Especially since things with Croix went sideways.
Being a former player from Africa himself, he understands the unique pressure and the weight of expectations that come with this life, so I gravitated toward him pretty early on.
“You look like hell,” he says flatly, before taking a long, contemplative sip from his Novel Grounds coffee cup.
“Feel like it, too,” I mutter, my fingers tightening as I adjust the ice pack on my knee.
“So the divorce…the marriage…it’s really over?” he asks, his voice level but his eyes searching.
I nod, the movement stiff. “Yeah. It’ll be final in six months or so.
We missed the annulment window, so the whole mess will be a public spectacle.
The marriage, the fallout. Everything. And to add insult to injury, the show owns the footage to every excruciating detail that led to the dissolution of my marriage. ”
Coach exhales slowly through his nose, holding my gaze with a heavy look. “So the world gets to watch your love story rise and fall on prime time.”
“Apparently.” I force a laugh. “My parents, too.”
He winces, but doesn’t laugh back. “I know this is tough. Especially with African parents.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I wish to God I knew why the hell you would sign up for something like this. But, now that we are here, I hope you know you’re skating on thin ice, Luca.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Coach. I’ll get my head back in the game in no time.”
“You have no more time. And it’s not just your game I’m worried about.
There are…trust issues,” he continues, eyes narrowing.
You’ll be cleared in three months if you take it easy, but that doesn’t mean you walk back onto the pitch as captain.
Not after everything you’ve put the organization through with your behavior recently. ”
“I said I know,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to.
Coach raises a brow but lets it go. “Luca, this isn’t something you can charm yourself out of. We can’t give you a slap on the wrist. You’ve been reckless. Fighting with Croix in the locker room, mouthing off to reporters, skipping press briefings altogether. You’re better than this.”
I swallow hard and nod. “I’ll fix it. I’ll work my way back.”
“Good. Because the front office has already looped in Tatum from PR& Marketing. She’s meeting with your agent this week because, according to her, your image needs a full overhaul, and you’re not getting a vote on it.”
I sigh. “I understand.”
Coach sets his coffee cup down. “One more question.”
And here we go.
“How are you really feeling—now that the marriage is ending?”
I frown. “We’re not gabbing or gushing over my feelings, Coach.”
My phone buzzes on the counter. My dad.
“Look at that. Saved by the bell.”
Coach just shrugs. “Don’t think I won’t ask again.”
“What is this, the fucking Gilmore Girls? I don’t need group therapy, Coach.”
I swipe to answer. “Daddy. Kedu?”
I speak to my father at least twice a week, so I could have easily let it go to voicemail. But I’m so desperate to escape Coach’s crosshairs that I answer immediately. I barely get the greeting out before he blazes through my niceties, cutting straight to the heart of why he’s calling.
“Uzoma!” He always uses my Igbo name when he’s excited. Uzoma, or simply Uzo. It means “good path” or “beautiful road.”
In Nigeria, choosing a child’s name is a prophetic endeavor—a way to speak a destiny into existence and guide their feet before they even take their first steps.
My path was supposed to be paved with wise decisions and a beautiful journey.
I just don't think my parents’ vision for that road included camera crews and microphones.
“Did you see my posting on Facebook? I posted all of the names of the relatives who have given money to the birthday celebration already!”
“No, daddy. I’ve been quite busy.”
“Busy with your wife, I hope? How do you think she will fit in with your sisters and your mother’s family?”
I let out a sigh. Few people actually know what I’ve done.
What yesterday meant for the future of my wife and me.
The NDA I had to sign is basically a physical barrier.
I’m barred from discussing the show’s content or the specific brand of heartbreak currently crushing me. Not even with my best friend—My father.
The only reason I was able to share any details with Coach Jones and the team owners was because they were forced to sign NDAs of their own. They needed to understand the situation, assessing the fallout for any potential liabilities that could damage the team’s reputation.
“Daddy, she will fit in fine because she is my wife. If people can’t accept her, they can’t accept me,” I say instead.
“Sometimes, I think you forget the mother who raised you.”
“I could never do that, daddy.”
He huffs, then quickly changes the subject. “Your mother says you are coming home for her birthday. You are coming, Uzo?”
I hesitate. “If I can.”
“Luca,” he warns, his voice dropping into a stern, ancestral register. “Your mother. Her birthday. Don’t embarrass this family further. Bring your wife home to greet us properly.”
Further. He doesn’t need a long lecture for the weight of that word to hit home.
The fact that I will be appearing on a reality show is the most humiliating thing I could have done to our name.
To miss my mum’s birthday, knowing my sister has already coordinated a celebration for at least two hundred of our closest aunties and uncles, would only bring more shame onto the pile.
“Okay, Daddy. I’ll try.”
“You better do more than try. Your sister has picked the most beautiful aso ebi for her.”
“Okay, daddy. More than try.”
“And make sure to like my Facebook post!” He yells. Then the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a moment, then at Coach.
He gives me a look. “So... that went well.”
“Splendid,” I say sarcastically.
My parents are expecting me to go home for my mother’s birthday.
With my wife.