Chapter 13
I stepped through the entrance of the Shott Center, straightening the cuffs on my custom Tom Ford suit.
It was midnight blue because black was what everybody expected.
I clocked the exact moment the room recognized who’d just walked in.
This wave moved through a crowd, heads turning like dominoes, whispers spread faster than a fast break, and suddenly, I wasn’t just Mateo Bryant, I was the Mateo Bryant, the dude who dropped forty-two points last week, the comeback they didn’t see coming.
I adjusted my tie, more out of habit than necessity, and flashed the smile my agent said, “sells sneakers.” Tonight, it was selling me.
Everyone who mattered in Columbus basketball was here—executives in tuxes worth more than what my mama made in a year, players decked out in jewelry that would blind you if you stared too long, and me finally standing exactly where I belonged.
“Mateo! Over here!”
A reporter waved frantically from behind a velvet rope.
I gave him the nod that was not too eager but just enough acknowledgment to show I was approachable.
That was the game off the court—balance.
Acted too thirsty, and they smelled desperation.
Too aloof, and you were ungrateful, difficult.
I learned that by watching from the sidelines all those years.
“How does it feel to be up for Most Improved Player after everything you’d been through?”
I leaned in, making sure the Nike logo on my cufflinks caught the light. “Man, it’s a blessing. Shows what happens when you stay ready so you don’t have to get ready, you know what I’m saying?”
“Did you ever doubt you’d return to this level after your injury?”
“Doubt? Nah. Setbacks are just setups for comebacks. I knew my time was coming.” I laughed. I practiced the sound to hit just the right note of humble confidence.
Lie. Those two years were nothing but doubt, nights I’d woken up in cold sweats thinking my career was dead before it started, and watching DeAndre Pearson taking my minutes, my spotlight, my future all while I smiled and clapped from the bench like a good teammate.
But the cameras didn’t need to know that part.
More flashes and more microphones were pushed in my face.
I navigated them with the same control I used weaving through defenders—precise, measured, always one step ahead.
“Mateo! What’s your response to Coach Von saying your success was the season’s biggest surprise?”
I chuckled, letting the slight dig roll off. “Coach keeps it real. It was a surprise to everybody but me. Sometimes, you gotta bet on yourself when nobody else will.”
A hand clapped my shoulder, and I turned to see Tray Jackson, our veteran point guard, grinning widely.
“This man is putting up numbers like he’s playing against high schoolers!” he announced to the reporters who ate it up.
I dapped him up, grateful for the assist off-court.
The camaraderie played well for the cameras, and for a moment, it almost felt genuine.
Almost. But I’d learned the hard way that this league wasn’t about friendship.
It was about who was useful to whom, and right now, being associated with the hot hand benefited everyone.
The moment I cooled off, these same dudes would walk past me like I was invisible. I had seen it happen too many times.
“Mateo, your wife looks stunning tonight. How important has Danica’s support been for your comeback?”
I scanned the room until I spotted her across the floor, working the crowd with that effortless grace.
The blue dress hugged her curves. She wore her hair swept up to show off the diamond earrings I bought after signing my new endorsement deal last week.
Even from here, I could tell she was the baddest woman in the room.
“Man, Dani is my MVP. She believed when nobody else did, held me down during rehab years ago, and supported every decision I made. I’m lucky to have Danica by my side,” I replied, not breaking eye contact, even though she hadn’t noticed me yet.
The line landed perfectly. The female reporter put her hand to her chest like I just recited poetry instead of the same shit every player said about their woman.
But unlike most, I meant it. Danica knew me—the real me, not this version I was selling tonight.
She’d seen me at my lowest, cursing God and the universe when my knee gave out in what was supposed to be my breakout game.
She never blinked; she just got to work researching the best surgeons and physical therapists. She pushed me when I wanted to quit.
And she quit asking questions about DeAndre, even when the “freak accident” had put him in a walking boot for the rest of the season. She just poured me a drink and said, “Your moment’s here. Don’t waste it.” That was love… loyalty.
Another camera flashed. Another microphone pointed in my face. A sponsor rep from Nike slid in with his white teeth and hungry eyes.
“Mateo, we’re considering a limited-edition colorway for the new Air Zoom. ‘The Comeback’ as the theme. What do you think?”
Two years ago, I couldn’t get these people to return my agent’s calls. Now, they were designing shoes around my story. The irony wasn’t lost on me, but neither was the opportunity.
“I’d like that. We could incorporate something about patience and persistence.” I nodded, already seeing the marketing campaign in my head.
“Perfect,” the rep grinned. “We’ll set up a meeting next week.”
The conversation shifted to numbers, percentages, figures, and projections, and I maintained the smile while my mind drifted.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted DeAndre hobbling in on his crutches.
His face was fixed in that forced smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Our gazes locked for half a second before he turned away.
A chill crawled up my spine despite the warmth of the room.
“Mateo, one last question. What would you say to kids out there who might face setbacks like you did?”
I returned my focus to the reporter, summoning the sincerity that had gotten me this far.
“I’d tell them that your lowest moment isn’t the end of your story unless you stop writing. Sometimes, the universe has plans you can’t see yet. And sometimes, you gotta help the universe along a little bit.” I paused, letting the weight of my words land.
The reporter nodded earnestly. “Powerful words from a powerful comeback story. Thanks for your time, Mateo.”
I shook a few more hands, posed for a few more photos, and then extracted myself from the press line. The night was young, and I had more performances to give before it was over.
At the bar, I ordered a whiskey neat. It was a celebration and liquid courage in one glass.
As I raised it to my lips, I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bottles.
For a split second, I didn’t recognize the man staring back at me—confident, successful, admired.
I downed the drink in one swallow and set the glass down, not wanting to remember the calculation in that step.
How I knew precisely where he’d plant his foot.
How I shifted just enough that his landing would be compromised and not enough to look intentional.
It was just enough. The sound of his ankle popping made me sick.
His scream had brought the trainers running.
Is this what winning felt like? The constant fear of losing?
The fear of separation from my child and the woman who knew me best?
The silent negotiation with the man whose career I’d sacrificed for my own?
I didn’t have time to answer those questions.
The cameras were waiting. The fans were waiting.
DeAndre was watching. Danica was watching.
Tomorrow, there was a game to win, not just for the team or the standings or my career but to keep the house of cards from collapsing around me. I pasted on my media smile and strode back into the light, leaving the truth lurking in the shadows where it belonged… for now.
THE END
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