Chapter 16 Zuri
zuri
. . .
The wealthiest men alive trickled out of the conference room as Montana approached me. My heart sank at the sight of his stoic expression. At his side, LaShawn wore a sharp sneer, which told me she went to bat for him.
My eyes searched his. “What happened?”
“They slapped me with sanctions. No public incidents. No threats. No looking at anybody sideways. They benched me.” The last words dripped with venom. “Til April.”
Benched? I glanced at LaShawn.
“He’s gotta sit out the entire spring training,” she murmured.
Passion burned behind Montana’s eyes. Instantly, I understood. The tenderness with which he taught Darius to catch a ball … that love distilled from passion.
LaShawn shrugged. “I thought … after I pulled out stats, just chatted with them—eye to eye. They’d …”
I glared at a Black man who just stepped out, some ex-NBA star, his suit a touch too tight across the shoulders.
Two other executives flanked him like LeBron followers.
Did they just mention hot chicken? Oh, the irony.
And disrespect. If I were serving them, I’d make it so hot their future bloodlines started fanning themselves.
No sides, or cornbread, just salty-ass tea and pain.
Eyes locked on Montana, my voice rose for the trio who’d probably choke on a lemon pepper wing saturated in ranch. “Did you tell them about your dad? You told them your story?”
“Your father?” One of the guy’s brows lifted to his sloppy toupee.
Montana’s glare dropped on me like a brick to the chest. My stomach clenched, and his expression faded to neutral.
“While I ain’t tryna be a statistic,” Montana said, “and there are some damn good fathers where I come from, I ain’t got no daddy.”
He and ex-not-on-LeBron’s-level shared a glance, while the other two Dodger owners licked their lips, their minds on chicken.
Zuri … don’t. This is Montana’s story to tell …
But Montana hadn’t taken their punishment well.
Besides, my mouth had other plans.
“Ezekiel is his father.”
A few more execs slipped out of the room, eyes on us.
“You haven’t seen him in years?” This from Never-skilled-like-LeBron.
Montana roughed a hand over his face. “Ezekiel put hands on my mom. She came to her senses when my brother Washington—”
“Ah, the judge.” This from Navy Blue Suit, voiced with esteem.
Yes! They cared … somewhat.
“Wash did something stupid,” Montana said.
That’s not all! “Washington stabbed him with a knife,” I said.
Montana groaned. “He was five. Thought it was a game. The whole ordeal—taking me to the ER because of a slice in the chest—sobered Momma up real quick. She left him. Dude came and went. Last thing I knew, he got locked up out in Victorville—armed robbery. Did a dime.”
“Ahh. That’s why he didn’t appear when we won the first World Series?” Another nodded and said, “Had just got out in time for this one.”
“Yep,” Montana’s reply was short.
“Have any of you ever seen the effects of spousal abuse on the nuclear family unit?” My voice shifted, clinical.
“Every day …” before I quit, “ahem, I’ve seen it in the ER.
Bruises inconsistent with stories. Kids carrying trauma in their bones.
Women who haven’t wised up after the honeymoon stage in the abuse cycle. ”
My eyes locked onto the trio for a beat.
“Ezekiel showed up after years of silence. Wanting money—” Maybe, money?
I glanced at Montana. Nod, or something.
He had me freestyle testifying in front of billionaires.
“Montana had every right to shove him. Truth is, he showed restraint. Any other man might’ve decked their father.
My man gave him the smallest fraction of the pain he’d seen as a boy. Pain he also felt when his brother …”
I winced. Sorry, Washington. For all those times you came and ensured we were safe … but I’ve gotta pitch you beneath a fast-moving bus. “… stabbed him.”
“Wash didn’t stab me. It was a cut.” Montana’s lips hardly moved.
Sorry. “Like we said, Washington was too young to understand his actions, but developmentally … on track. A baby genius. He exhibited appropriate behavior while imitating the example set at home.”
I looked at Montana like See? Very helpful. Very Shonda Rhimes—Grey’s Anatomy.
Arctic daggers burned straight through me and my attempt at redemption. But Soapbox Zuri was driving the bus now.
Without a brake pedal.
And she’d tossed Montana underneath with his brother.
“Abuse cycles are real.” I gestured with my hands.
Ready to slay this TED Talk. “As I said, in medicine, we see it daily. One parent lays hands. A child absorbs. The cycle repeats. Generational trauma doing the Cupid shuffle”—mentally this was a palm to forehead moment—“straight down the family tree.”
An exec coughed. Mm-hmm. This diagnosis was personal.
M’kay. I’d made an impact on him. I could do this all day.
“So, yes, Montana shoved him. From a psychological perspective? That was therapy. I am not a therapist, but doctors can prescribe medication. Montana Babineaux doesn’t need probation.
This dedicated athlete needs his spring season.
” Since I’d already said this before in so many other words, my mind finally brain farted.
Heavy silence ensued. My heartbeat thudded in my ears. Now, I needed an eloquent speech to get Montana to forgive me—while fully clothed. Because if feelings were a fish fry, I’d be the catfish nobody had scaled, half-coated, and getting all burned up in the oil by the way he glared.
Montana’s jaw flexed. Crap. I should’ve known when he didn’t play up the “Saved Woman from Tiny Terrorizers” that this situation had deeply affected him.
Right then, I realized, this wasn’t She embarrassed me, and we can laugh at it one day.
It was Forget one more night of trying to get into her panties. I’m taking her ass home today!
Lord, let there not be turbulence.