Chapter 12 #2
I moved into the kitchen. My bare feet were silent against the marble floor.
Mateo stood with his back to me, all six foot four of him emphasized by the fitted athletic gear he was already wearing.
The team logo stretched across his broad shoulders.
He’d gained weight since becoming a starter—all muscle sculpted by extra training sessions and the nutritionist the team now provided.
His body was another asset being carefully curated.
“I saw the email. I’ve already laid out your blue suit for the interview, the one that photographs well on camera,” I answered when the blender stopped.
He turned, flashing a smile. “What would I do without you?”
The question hung between us heavier than he intended. What would he do without me? Without my silence? Without my performance as the proud, supportive wife who never questioned how her husband suddenly leapfrogged three players on the depth chart?
“Crash and burn, baby,” I said with a wink, keeping my tone light.
He laughed, reaching for me, pulling me into a brief embrace that smelled like expensive cologne and ambition. His lips brushed my forehead—a gesture for an audience that wasn’t even here. We were practicing, always practicing.
Mason’s footsteps interrupted the moment. His superhero pajamas were rumpled from sleep as he stumbled into the kitchen. His eyes, so much like his father’s, lit up at the sight of Mateo.
“Daddy! You’re on TV again! Coach at school says you’re gonna win MVP!”
Mateo scooped him up, tossing him playfully before settling him on a barstool at our kitchen island.
“That right? Well, your coach knows his basketball.”
I slid a bowl of fresh fruit in front of Mason, ruffling his hair. “Breakfast first. Sports talk later. You want some eggs, baby?”
Mason nodded, but his eyes followed Mateo as he moved around the kitchen with newfound confidence as if success had physically altered his posture. My son watched his father the way boys do with admiration bordering on worship. The weight of that devotion tightened something in my chest.
“Your eggs, sir,” I said, placing the plate in front of Mason, who dug in immediately.
Mateo checked his phone, scrolling through what I knew was an endless stream of notifications, congratulations, interview requests—the digital trail of his rising fame.
I fixed my own plate, settling beside Mason while Mateo leaned against the counter barely present as he responded to texts.
The three of us occupied the same space, going through the motions of a family breakfast, but something essential had shifted.
There was a new distance between Mateo and me, between who we were and who we were becoming.
Mason’s fork paused midway to his mouth. His eyes darted from me to Mateo then back to me.
“Is everything okay?” he asked suddenly. His voice was small but clear.
The question hit me like cold water. Children sensed things—shifts in atmosphere, tension beneath smiles. Mason had always been perceptive, picking up on undercurrents that adults thought they were hiding.
“Yes! Everything’s perfect, baby. Daddy’s doing amazing at basketball, we’re all healthy, and I made your favorite eggs. What could be wrong?” My words came out too bright too quick. I forced a wider smile, reaching to squeeze his little hand.
Mason studied my face for a long moment, his five-year-old features scrunched in concentration. Then, apparently satisfied, he nodded and returned to his breakfast.
“They are my favorite eggs,” he confirmed solemnly.
Over his head, Mateo’s eyes met mine. There was a question there I didn’t want to answer, an assessment happening behind his calm exterior. He’d always been good at reading people. It was what made him a solid point guard before all this. Now, that same skill felt dangerous when turned on me.
“I’ve got some calls to make before the interview. An agent wants to discuss that sportswear deal,” Mateo said finally, draining his protein shake.
I watched him go and studied the easy confidence in his stride, the subtle swagger that wasn’t there before.
Sometimes, I looked at him and saw glimpses of the Mateo I’d fallen for—dedicated, determined, with something to prove.
But something new emerged alongside his success, a hardness around the edges, a calculation behind his eyes.
“Mommy, can I watch cartoons?” Mason asked, pushing his empty plate away.
“Sure, baby. The sitter is coming today.”
When he’d settled in the living room, I cleaned up quickly, operating on autopilot as my mind raced ahead to the day’s carefully orchestrated schedule—interview at noon, photoshoot at 2:00 p.m., team dinner at 3:30 p.m. Every minute was accounted for.
Each appearance was planned down to our coordinated outfits.
I retreated to my bathroom. The lighting was perfect.
Recessed fixtures that eliminated shadows made creating the flawless appearance expected of an up-and-coming basketball star’s wife easier.
I settled at the vanity, surveying the arsenal of products arranged with military precision.
Foundation, concealer, contour, highlight—my weapons of mass construction.
With steady hands, I began the transformation.
First, primer created a smooth canvas. I followed with foundation and all the tricks of the trade to give the illusion of perfection.
I’d gotten too good at this. Next, I stepped into the designer dress I chose for today’s events.
It was navy blue with subtle gold accents—team colors, of course.
I was the supportive wife making a statement without saying a word.
My reflection showed a woman in complete control without a hair out of place or a doubt visible After dressing, I heard the doorbell.
I exited my room, closed the bedroom door behind me, and stepped back into our carefully curated life.
Mateo had just moved to answer the door. It was probably the babysitter. He looked over at me from where he stood next to Mason. His smile was genuine in a way that made my heart flutter.
“Damn, baby. You look amazing.”
“Language but thank you,” I reminded him gently, nodding toward Mason before smiling back.
He answered the door with the confidence of a man who believed he deserved everything coming to him.
After greeting the babysitter and giving her today’s instructions, I took Mateo’s arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath expensive fabric.
He was the man I married, the man I wasn’t sure I knew anymore, the father of my child, and the center of a mystery I’d buried.
“Let’s give them something to talk about,” I said, leading us toward the door, toward the cameras, and toward the performance that had become our life.
The mask was firmly in place, and for now, that was enough.