Chapter 11 #2
I moved to the built-in bar, one of the perks of finally making starter money, and poured myself that bourbon.
“You should’ve told me. I would’ve gotten you courtside seats. Better than sitting at home alone.” I took a long swallow, letting the burn steady me.
“I wasn’t planning to watch, but Remi called me,” she stated.
The bourbon suddenly tasted sour on my tongue. I set the glass down more forcefully than intended. The clink against the marble counter was sharp in the quiet room.
Danica shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”
I tilted my head, studying her. “Isn’t it? You married an athlete, Dani. You knew what this life was… the competition… the politics… the cost of making it.”
“I didn’t marry someone who would deliberately hurt?—”
“I didn’t hurt anyone,” I cut her off. My voice was sharp enough to make her flinch. “DeAndre hurt himself trying to stop me from exposing him. There’s a difference.”
The silence that followed was charged with everything we were both thinking but not saying. I saw the calculations happening behind her eyes, weighing the life she’d built against the morality she’d betrayed by staying silent—by staying with me.
“Why are you telling me this? Why now?” she finally asked.
I smiled, softening my expression. “Because I don’t want secrets between us. Because I trust you. I need to know you’re with me 100 percent.” I reached for her hand, and this time, she didn’t pull away, but I could feel the tension in her fingers.
“And if I’m not?”
The question hung in the air between us, dangerous and raw. I squeezed her hand tightly enough to remind her of my presence and strength.
“Don’t act like you’re better than this.
You’re still here, still wearing the diamonds I bought you, still enjoying the view from this condo, still posting those perfect family photos on Instagram,” I noted.
My voice was low but clear.I brought her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss on her knuckles.
“You made your choice when you decided not to answer Remi’s call. ”
Danica pulled her hand from mine slowly and deliberately. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but her voice was steady when speaking. “I’m going to check on Mason.”
She turned away, heading toward our son’s bedroom. Her back was rigid with the effort of maintaining her composure. I watched her go without stopping her. She needed time to process, to come to terms with who I was, who we were together.
I picked up my bourbon again, swirling the amber liquid in the crystal tumbler as I looked out over the neighborhood. The view was everything I imagined it would be. It was worth every sacrifice, every calculated risk.
Danica would come around. She had too much invested in this life, in our family, to walk away.
And deep down, beneath all that carefully constructed morality, she understood the truth that most people didn’t want to admit.
Winning had a price, and someone always had to pay it.
It just so happened that this time it wasn’t me.
Three days after my confession, our condo felt like a minefield. Danica and I orbited each other with careful precision, exchanging only the necessary words, maintaining our routines like actors in a play.
“Pass the salt.”
“Mason needs his permission slip signed.”
“I’ll be late tonight.”
It was the basics of a marriage without the substance.
At night, she slept on her side with her back turned to me.
Her body was rigid even in unconsciousness.
I didn’t push. I had learned when to advance and when to retreat on the court and off.
Right now, retreat was the smart play. Let her come to terms with reality in her own time.
I was sprawled on the couch after Tuesday morning practice, icing my knee when Danica entered from her home office. She wore her “working from home” look—hair pulled back, minimal makeup, cashmere lounge set that cost more than most people’s rent. The kind of casual that took effort.
“Mason down for his nap?” I asked, muting the basketball highlights I’d barely been watching.
She nodded, settling into the armchair across from me rather than next to me on the sofa. The distance was deliberate. Everything between us was deliberate now.
“Coach happy with practice?” she asked, picking up her tablet, pretending to check emails.
“Yeah. Team’s clicking.” I adjusted the ice pack, wincing slightly. “We’re finding our rhythm without DeAndre.”
She didn’t take the bait, didn’t engage with the mention of his name. Instead, she just nodded again with her eyes on her screen. The silence stretched between us, elastic and uncomfortable.
The sports network transitioned from highlights to breaking news. The volume was too low to hear correctly. I reached for the remote to turn it up when Danica suddenly said, “Wait.”
I followed her gaze to the screen, where the network logo had given way to a hospital room, and sitting up in bed, looking pale but composed, was DeAndre Pearson.
“Turn it up,” Danica commented, setting her tablet aside. All pretense of disinterest was gone.
I hit the volume button, and a strange tension coiled in my gut as the reporter’s voice filled our living room.
“…his first public statement since the accident that sidelined him over two months ago and potentially threatened the future of his career.”
The camera tightened on DeAndre’s face. He’d lost weight, and the angles of his cheekbones were more pronounced. The hospital gown did nothing for his usually impeccable image, but he still managed to look dignified and polished—the perfect victim.
“DeAndre, there’s been a lot of speculation about exactly what happened during that practice session,” the reporter mentioned off-camera. “Can you walk us through it?”
DeAndre shifted slightly. His expression was carefully neutral. “I remember most things—just a little hazy on the moment it happened. But that’s basketball. Injuries happen. I’m focused on recovery, and I’m grateful for the support. I want to ask for privacy as I get back on my feet.”
Something cold slid down my spine. This wasn’t the response I expected. Where was the accusation? The blame? The reporter pressed on, asking the question I was thinking.
“There have been rumors that this wasn’t just a typical practice injury. They speculate that there might have been some... interaction with another player that led to the fall.”
The camera caught a flash of something in DeAndre’s eyes. Anger? Fear? It was gone before I could place it.
“Like I said, it’s hazy. Basketball is a physical game. Things get competitive in practice. That’s how we push each other to be better.”
“And what about Mateo Bryant stepping into your starting role? The team is on a winning streak with him leading the offense,” the reporter continued.
DeAndre’s smile tightened just a fraction. “Mateo has always been talented. The team needed someone to step up, and he did. That’s what professionals do.”
I remained perfectly still as I watched. I was aware of Danica’s eyes on me rather than the screen. I felt my jaw clenching and my muscles working beneath the skin as I tried to maintain my poker face. What the fuck was DeAndre playing at?
“Any timeline on your return?” the reporter asked.
“Doctors say six to eight months is best case. We’ll see. I’m taking it one day at a time, focusing on what I can control.” DeAndre squared his shoulders slightly.
The interview wrapped up with platitudes about teamwork and perseverance. As the network cut to a commercial, I hit mute again, and the sudden silence was heavy between us.
“He didn’t say your name yet,” Danica said flatly. Her gaze was still fixed on me, studying my reaction.
I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Nothing to say. Like he said, injuries happen.”
I removed the ice pack, setting it aside as I leaned forward. “DeAndre and I understand each other. This is a business. He knows that better than most.”
Danica stood abruptly with her tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. “I need to finish some work before Mason wakes up.”
As she walked away, I wondered if she believed me. It didn’t matter whether she did or not. The result was the same either way. I was starting, we were winning, and DeAndre was sidelined indefinitely. The rest was just... details.
The next few days unfolded with a strange new rhythm.
On the court, I was untouchable, averaging twenty-five points a game, diming up my teammates, playing the kind of defense that made highlight reels.
At home, the frost between Danica and me began to thaw slightly.
She sat next to me at dinner and laughed at something I said while we gave Mason his bath—small things but significant.
What was more noticeable was what wasn’t happening. Remi wasn’t courtside anymore. Her social media, usually full of support for her brother and the team, had gone quiet. And according to Danica, the calls and texts stopped completely.
“It’s strange. It’s like she just... gave up,” Danica commented one night as we were getting ready for bed. This was the first time she’d voluntarily brought up anything related to the situation in a while.
I pulled my t-shirt over my head, watching Danica’s reflection in the bathroom mirror as she removed her makeup.
“Maybe she realized she was wrong about what happened,” I noted.
Danica met my eyes in the reflection. “Or maybe someone told her to back off.”
I shrugged, maintaining eye contact. “Either way, isn’t it better? For everyone?”
She didn’t answer. She just turned her attention back to her skincare routine, was methodical and focused.
But I saw the wheels turning behind her eyes, reassessing, recalculating.
Two days later, I found out why Remi went silent.
I was shooting around after practice, just me and the ball and the empty arena, when Tray joined me on the court.
“Yo, you talk to DeAndre at all?” he asked, rebounding one of my shots and passing it back.
I shook my head. “Nah. Figured he needs space. Why?”
Tray dribbled absently, a habit when he was thinking. “Just wondering. I visited him yesterday. He asked about you.”
My shot clanged off the rim. “Yeah? What’d he say?”
“Nothing much. Just how you were playing. If you seemed... settled in the starting role.”
I retrieved the ball, taking my time. “What’d you tell him?”
“Truth. That you’re balling out. I also mentioned how his sister was staring daggers at you at some of the games.” Tray spun the ball on his finger, not looking at me.
My chest tightened. “And?”
“And he got real quiet. Then said he’d handle it. Said he’d tell Remi to leave it alone and what happened wasn’t worth messing up his comeback over.” Tray finally looked at me. His expression was unreadable.
I nodded slowly, processing. “Smart. Focus on recovery, not drama.”
“Yeah. Smart.” Tray passed me the ball one more time.
That night, I told Danica about the conversation with Tray. I framed it as proof that DeAndre had moved on and that we all should. She listened quietly, those PR instincts analyzing every word, every implication.
“So, DeAndre specifically told his sister to back off, the same sister who was convinced something happened during that practice, the same sister who was reaching out to me for weeks.”
“Looks that way.”
She studied me for a long moment. “And you don’t find that suspicious at all? That she’d suddenly decide to let it go?”
I met her gaze evenly. “I find it professional… mature.”
She set down her wine glass with deliberate precision. “Or calculated, like maybe someone reminded him what he stood to lose if certain… information were to come out.”
There it was—the accusation. It was thinly veiled but unmistakable. I could deny it. I could have acted offended that she’d think I’d blackmail a teammate. Instead, I just smiled slowly and confidently.
“Like I told you, Dani. DeAndre and I understand each other.”
She held my gaze for one more beat before looking away, her shoulders dropping slightly.
“I’m taking Mason and staying at my mother’s for a few days. I need some… perspective,” she said after a moment. Her voice was carefully neutral.
I didn’t argue or try to talk her out of it. Instead, I reached for her hand across the table, relieved when she didn’t pull away.
“Take all the time you need. I’ll be here when you get back,” I mentioned gently but firmly.
The unspoken question hung between us. Would she come back?
Of course, she would. Danica was too bright to throw away everything we’d built over a morally gray area she couldn’t prove and nobody else cared about.
She’d come back, and we’d move forward, and eventually, this would be another secret we keep from the world and ourselves.
After all, that was the game we played now, and I was winning.