Isolation (BLP Sports #6)

Chapter 1

My wife, Danica, was asleep with her back to me. The rise and fall of her shoulder was quiet as I watched momentarily, wondering if she dreamed about something interesting.

As if someone had turned down the volume in the world, our bedroom was quiet, except for the muffled sounds of cartoons coming from the living room. Mason, my son, must already be awake. I swear, sleep and that kid have had beef since birth.

I slowly shifted out of bed. If nothing else, being benched for two years had taught me patience. Danica stirred but pulled the white sheet over her shoulder, her hair sprawling over the pillow. My chest tightened. Everything I was doing was for her—for us.

I padded to the bathroom, noticing the cool floor under my feet.

Our condo wasn’t huge, but it belonged to us.

We’d been here since before our son was born, back when Danica worked outside the home in PR, and I hoped to be picked up as a breakout star in the NBA.

Boy, these walls have seen the struggle.

I shut the bathroom door and took a piss before flipping on the light.

I squinted under the brightness, noticing bags under my eyes, but whatever.

I washed my hands and splashed water on my face before grabbing my toothbrush.

I squeezed out a line of the minty paste that helped wake me up a little more.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, asking the question of the day, the one I didn’t have answers to.

Would it be another Thursday on the bench, or would today change everything?

I spit, rinsed, and put on deodorant. My routine was mindless, giving my mind too much time to wander.

Coach had been watching me, not the regular assessment, but like he wanted me to show him something.

Hell, I’d been ready. I’d spent too much time riding pine and watching niggas with half my basketball IQ get time.

It had been two years of “good effort” or “we’ll get you next time.

” Two years of Danica saying the right things at the right time about timing and patience.

She shelved her career to support mine, only for me to come home with a bent neck from watching from the sidelines. That shit needed to end today.

Back in the bedroom, I rummaged through my drawer for practice gear—my lucky socks and some good compression shorts.

I slipped on a shirt and looked at Danica again.

She was now facing me, but her eyes remained closed.

I pulled the covers up over her shoulders.

My fingers lingered on her soft skin. She was warm, real, solid .

“I love you,” I whispered, knowing she didn’t hear me.

I closed the bedroom door carefully behind me and headed down the hallway to the living room. Mason was perched on our gray leather sofa, legs swinging. He had a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and examined each piece before popping it into his mouth.

“Yo, you checking each piece for poison or what?” I asked in a low tone.

Mason whipped his head around, breaking into a gap-toothed smile that hit me square in my chest.

“Daddy!”

“That’s who I be. Why you up mad early, man?”

He shrugged.

“You want some?” Mason asked, offering me the box.

I took a handful, shook my hand like I was about to throw dice, and threw them into my mouth.

“Thanks, but you know Mom doesn’t want you eating right out of the box, right?”

“She was asleep,” he explained.

I studied his face. He was a perfect blend of me and Danica. He had her eyes but my jawline. I could tell he wasn’t into the show he was watching with talking animals. It was just a noise filler. I sat next to him on the couch.

“What’s up with you being up so early? Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.

Mason looked down, suddenly shy. “I wanted to see you.”

My chest cracked with warmth seeping through my ribs. “Yeah?”

Mason nodded. “You’re going to play today? For real play?”

Damn, his question hit heavy. Mason had been to enough games to know the difference between getting time and bench warming. Kids really noticed shit, even when you thought they weren’t paying attention.

“That’s my plan,” I told him, hoping it didn’t sound as hollow as it did to me.

“Can I come? I want to wear my jersey—the one like yours.”

I rubbed a hand over my facial hair, the hair bristling against my palm. “Not today, but we can work on layups and dribbling this weekend.”

Mason’s little shoulders dropped, but he recovered quickly. “Promise?”

I held my hand out for a fist bump, and he tapped his tiny fist against mine.

“Oh yeah, I have something for you.”

I reached into my gym bag and pulled out a basketball keychain. It was from a community event, a promotional item they passed out.

“Whoa! This is cool,” Mason exclaimed.

I tousled Mason’s hair. His curls were getting long—Danica would probably want me to take him for a haircut soon.

“Be good, and let your mom sleep, alright? She has a lot on her plate.”

Mason clutched the keychain. “I will, and you score a lot of points today, Daddy.”

I chuckled. “I’ll try.”

I noticed the time on my phone was 5:42 a.m. I’d be the first one to the gym if I left now. Extra reps and extra shots had been my religion for months, waiting for a chance that never seemed to come.

I headed into the kitchen and threw a K-Cup into the Keurig for Danica while I drank water. I opened the freezer and grabbed a frozen Gatorade to throw in my bag for later. I grabbed the coffee and took it to our bedroom. I set the cup on a coaster on the nightstand.

Part of me wanted to wake Danica up and tell her about the anxiety I was feeling, but she needed her sleep, and I needed to focus. Instead, I kept it moving.

“You good with your cartoons, ’cause I gotta roll, little man,” I confirmed, slinging my duffel over my shoulder.

“Uh huh.” He was already distracted by the TV again.

I stepped outside into the morning air. The sky brightened as I got into my car and headed to the gym. I prayed today would be the day I could tell Mason I got my shot, look Danica in the eye, and let her know I could take care of her.

I pulled up to the gym in record time, parked my car, and grabbed my bag. I pushed through the doors in an attempt to beat the rush. It was quiet except for my shoes against the polished hardwood and the hum of the overhead lights.

I dropped my bag on the floor. The noise echoed in the empty space. Momma taught me early that being on time was late. It seemed no one else on the team got the memo. Hell, fine by me. I’d take the solo time.

I jogged to the far wall, grabbing a ball off the rack. I palmed it, starting my routine. Dribble right, dribble left between the legs, and behind my back. I was thankful two years on the pine hadn’t dulled my muscle memory.

The bounce of the ball was like meditation against the hardwood. My heart rate synced with the ball. Bounce, bounce. I added mid-range jumpers and focused on them from there—elbow in, soft touch, follow through. The ball slid through with a clean swish.

“I see you, Bryant.”

I didn’t allow Coach Von’s voice to break my rhythm. I sank another shot as his voice boomed across the court before I turned to acknowledge him. He had a coffee in one hand and a clipboard tucked under his arm. He watched me with his game face that he’d perfected over fifteen years of coaching.

“Good morning, Coach. Just getting warmed up,” I said, getting the ball and tucking it under my arm on my hip.

He took a sip from his travel mug and nodded. “The team will be rolling in soon. Keep up the good work.”

My focus shifted, and I resumed shooting. Coach was watching, really watching, which he hadn’t done in weeks. He was usually too busy with Lowe, Pearson, or any of the other starters for that matter. Today felt different. His gaze sat heavy on my shoulders.

The rest of the team filtered in true to the Coach’s words.

First, Tray and Julian then some of the rookies whose names I mixed up half the time.

The draft picks from last season who came in with more hype than game.

They gave the universal nod to acknowledge you without committing to a conversation.

Pearson—our unofficial team captain and starting point guard. Strolled in last, wearing earbuds and designer sweats that I was sure cost more than my first car. He had the swagger of someone who knows he’ll get time on the court.

“Gather up. We’re running drills before the scrimmage today. I want to focus on individual matchups and defensive rotations,” Coach said as we got in formation around him. I was slightly behind the first row, a habit of being an afterthought.

Individual matchups. My pulse kicked up. The one-on-one battles could change your trajectory if coaches remembered you when making lineup decisions.

Coach Von scanned his clipboard. “I want to see who can lock down and create their own shot. ISO drills first. Bryant, you’re up first.”

I was never first for anything, and a ripple of surprise moved through the group. But I had my game face on and nodded like this was what I expected.

“Pearson, you’re defending,” Coach added.

Classic coaching to establish hierarchy, putting the star against the bench warmer. It made sense.

Though Pearson looked annoyed, he pulled out his earbuds. “Got it, Coach.”

The team moved along the sidelines while we moved to center court. Everyone knew their roles. Pearson was supposed to shut me down to show me why he was a starter and I wasn’t. To prove the current pecking order was correct, I was supposed to try hard and fail. Fuck that.

“Bryant, show me something,” Coach ordered, tossing the ball. It sounded like a challenge and opportunity at the same time.

I bounced the ball, getting into a rhythm as I studied Pearson. He was in a defensive stance—weight back on his heels, hands out but not extended fully. For him, this was a formality. He didn’t respect my game.

Pearson had quick hands and was around six foot three, but his right ankle had been bothering him for a while. I’d noticed him wincing when he cut hard to the left, favoring it during games. Information was currency, and I’d been banking while on the bench.

“Any day, old man,” Pearson taunted, flashing a smile. I had about seven years on him at thirty-two. I was ancient in basketball terms.

I kept my dribble steady, ignoring the bait. Everyone was watching, and the gym was quiet except for the ball hitting the hardwood.

“Clock’s running,” Coach Von stated.

Jab step left, Pearson shifted his weight. I made my move. His eyes dropped to my midsection—rookie mistake. Fast but not rushed, I crossed over right as he tried to recover. When his weight shifted, I changed directions again, taking a hard left toward the baseline.

I had to give it to him. Pearson was quick. Body to body, he stayed with me. His hot ass breath was on my neck. He played the obvious move, expecting me to continue to the basket or pull up for the jumper.

Instead, he bumped against my back when I stopped on a dime. He was off balance momentarily. That’s when I spun, putting all my weight on my right foot. It was a tight pivot; my elbow extended naturally as part of the motion.

My elbow caught Pearson right where his abdomen and ribcage met.

There was contact—not too much but just enough.

His momentum did the rest. Then came a sound, a mixture of a crack and a pop followed by a sharp intake of breath.

Pearson hit the hardwood hard, hitting his head.

He didn’t get up. I stood frozen. My eyes locked on his twisted leg.

The trainer sprinted from the sideline as the gym exploded into motion. Coach Von knelt next to Pearson, whose face had gone pale. Everyone crowded around with their expressions full of concern.

“Call the squad. What happened?” Coach Von demanded.

I stepped back, raising my hands with the universal sign of innocence.

“I didn’t touch him. He undercut me on the spin.”

After what felt like the longest time, the medics showed up, loaded Pearson into the ambulance, and drove away.

“Back to warm-ups, everyone. Tray, you’re with the first team today running point,” Coach instructed.

The team dispersed, and after everyone was out of earshot, Coach Von turned to me. “Bryant, what really happened?”

I looked at him. “Basketball happened. He was playing me tight and lost his footing on the cut. I made my move to the basket. You can check the film,” I noted, keeping my voice level reasonable.

Coach studied me with narrowed eyes for a long moment. He’d been in the game too long to be fooled, but he was practical. I got it. With his star player down, the season was in jeopardy.

I took off in a slow jog back to the court. Lowe gave me a subtle nod. I wasn’t sure if it was a warning or respect. However, the rookies seemed to be reassessing the quiet guy who’d been riding the bench.

After retrieving the ball from where it had rolled during the commotion, I resumed my shooting routine. On the inside, my mind was racing, but outside, I moved as if nothing significant had happened.

There would be a film review and questions. If Pearson pushed hard enough, maybe even an investigation would be conducted. Accidents happen every day in competitive sports, and it would be my word against his.

I sank another jumper. The net snapped crisply. Coach was watching me. His expression was unreadable.

“Bryant. Don’t make me regret it, but you’re running with the starters today.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded.

I joined the team for drills. I didn’t think about Pearson or how I studied his weakness for weeks from the bench. I did think about how Mason’s face would shine when he found out I was going to play for real.