Chapter Six
Bee
“Okay, so we’re really hitting the ground running here, Bee,” Aaliyah announced from the kitchen table as I made her and Amir their birthday breakfast. Was it more a repentant sorry-you’re-working-on-your-birthday breakfast?
Yes. But they’d forget this minor inconvenience once I paid them their agent fees.
After announcing to my family the decision to move, Aaliyah and Amir got to work with outreach to the other teams in the league to explore organization needs and salary caps.
Even without the Jaguars win under my belt, I always knew I wouldn’t have a problem finding a home on another team.
I was the second overall draft pick, won the skills challenge at All-Star Weekend two years in a row, and just got a failing team a ring.
I was an asset on and off the court.
Yes, pretty privilege might have helped some, but out in the media, the worst that could be said about me was my penchant for crashing out on the court.
While some called it a high level of being unhinged, or immature, I preferred the term passion.
Bad calls from the referees made me feel crazy, and any time someone tried to son me on the court, they definitely came to regret it.
As I made the necessary goodbye FaceTime calls to my team and Trish, I tried not to get my hopes up on heading to Miami.
Perry and Danny were right: the Miami Waves had a need to fill in the gaps from their inaugural year, and they had the salary gap to match.
Cities like LA, Utah, and Houston already had their stars; legacy teams that really only needed new drafts to shake up their roster.
And there was no way in hell I was going to play for the Violets.
I might be suffering from wanderlust, but I wasn’t clinically insane.
“Miami has all but confirmed you’re on the roster this season, but they want to hold off on contract signings.” I whipped my head around to look at my big sister, half my hair tickling my cheeks while the other was in a messy bun I usually rocked during games.
“And why the hell is that?”
“They’re bringing on you and another free agent.”
“Okay…”
“But they want to announce both of y’all at the same time.” The A-Team had lived in California since I left for college, and it always took less than four weeks being home to bring out hints of their southern accents.
“And you’re sure they’re not playing games, right?” I asked warily. I didn’t want to regret my choice of leaving the Jaguars, and something like waiting until the last second to sign my next contract was stressing me out.
“I already asked them to sign a letter of intent with penalties and fees stated in clear black and white.” Aaliyah replied without looking up from the glow of her laptop.
“Next month, you’re officially headed to Miami.
We’ll sign the contracts, chat with the press, meet the coach, then get set up in their housing.
It’s all there. No funny games, I promise, Bee. ”
The benefit of having your family run your business was that they absolutely wanted to see me win. Both Aaliyah and Amir knew me like the back of their hands. They knew what I hated, what I loved, and what I would absolutely not do because there were just some things I just couldn’t be bought on.
The cons were that they occasionally didn’t take me seriously. My intuition to move was the first time they listened in earnest to my gut feelings. No questions asked, no rebuttals, no pushback. I hugged them harder for their understanding, even if it was deeply inconvenient.
As soon as my dad and I left draft night four years ago, I panicked at the idea of not knowing what the hell I was doing.
The collegiate rules hadn’t established revenue options for players yet, so I had no need for an agent while I got my degree.
Before I could even start having a panic attack, my older siblings pitched me on becoming my agents.
They graduated from a MBA program shortly after I graduated from undergrad, and we’d both be walking into the world without a clue of what to do.
What had started as me clinging to them for guidance evolved into a well-oiled machine I was grateful to have in my corner.
We all stumbled together at first—taking deals that took too long to pay out, and almost broke some very important non-competes—but steadily we got better and better as a team.
Now, I was the first Afro-Filipino athlete to have a major sneaker endorsement.
“Thanks, Liyah!” I said with every ounce of gratefulness I could muster. “Now, where’s our family? Breakfast is ready!”
Amir walked down the stairs, in no way an early riser like his twin, just as the front door swung open. Our parents walked in with balloons, champagne, and flowers in hand.
“Happy Birthday!” our dad yelled. “And Valentine’s Day! And it’s still Black History Month!”
“Congrats on Miami!” My mom belted like she was on stage. “I just cannot wait to come and tan with you, Bee-sting.”
My phone rang with a call from the C-Team, who were back on campus now that winter break was over.
My heart swelled at the unbelievable love I had for my family.
The way we showed up for each other even if we weren’t in the same state.
How they showed up for me even if they didn’t understand the career I’d chosen to follow. Holidays were never long enough.
Literally nothing could go wrong.
At the end of the night, I wandered downstairs to the basement and found my parents in their creative studio, my dad on one side of the room replacing the strings in his cello, and my mom on the opposite end at her seamstress table cutting a new pattern.
Every time I came home, I watched new wrinkles settle in on my parents’ faces.
Evidence of a half-century of laughs etched around their mouths.
Decades of honing in on their craft identified by the mini lines in between and above their eyebrows.
Watching time pass through them was hard—but their energy wasn’t giving fifty plus yet.
While they didn’t understand my lack of desire for the arts, they knew they’d passed down their discipline to me.
Their studio was a finished room off to the side of the basement.
Here, couches and seats were sunken in, racks and racks of vinyl were meticulously organized in alphabetical order, and yards of fabric were organized by color.
No matter how busy my siblings and my schedules got, they always made time for their crafts—my father a professional member of bands and orchestras, and my mom a costume designer.
Back in high school I talked my parents into installing a projector and screen down here, so now anytime I wanted to watch my favorite movies, with the sound system to complement, I came down here.
“If you’re going to stare, the least you can do is walk that pin cushion over,” my mom instructed from her side.
She was a first-generation Filipino; my grandparents taking the standard blue collar route when they immigrated to the states.
My mom had always had stars in her eyes for the stage.
She met my dad at a community theater, where he’d worked as a music director and had played seven instruments for over thirty years.
My favorite part about my family was the blend that we were.
The accents from both sides of my grandparents, one deep Southern, and the other woven with Tagalog.
“I’m sad I’m missing out on your costume debut,” I stated loud enough to reach over the sounds of Stevie Wonder on the record player.
“It’s okay, Bee-sting. My mom kissed my hand when I passed her the cushion. “There will be plenty more. Everyone’s going to want my costumes after this.” That was where I got my confidence from.
“I’ll make it up to you by winning our first game.”
“Sure, honey.” I knew the promise didn’t mean much to her, but she still warmed like she knew exactly what I meant.
“When are you going to get your head out of basketball and bring a girl home for us to meet?” my dad shouted from across the room, his medium dark skin illuminated by the glow of warm light.
“When I meet someone who makes me think about them more than basketball.”
My dad scoffed at my reaction, but I didn’t feel remorse because it was the best answer I could give.
And he knew I was serious enough to mean it, a rarity.
I was greatly allergic to discussing the status of my love life so I replaced that feeling with work, working hard, being the best, beating Nola Young.
It had gone well for the past four years I’d been on the Jaguars, but becoming a local celebrity at Perry’s bar was not helpful.
If from the way unknown numbers continued to text my phone, it was evident I had lost any chill I had. I was on a self-imposed timeout.
“You guys met doing the things you loved! Why can’t I?” I asked the room like I was doing standup.
“Well, how can you meet someone at work when you’re only watching the ball?” My mom looked up at me.
“Oh, so you do know how the game works?”
“Brittney Lee, are you scared to put yourself out there?” My mom glared at me, appalled.
“No, Mom, please. I am confident, secure, and only slightly vain. I know I’m a catch.” If there was one thing Lita Lee had taught my siblings and me, it was how to walk into a room like we owned it.
What I didn’t feel like saying was that I was absolutely terrified at finding myself in a relationship.
Like I would just wake up one day and be held within the confines of someone else.
The idea of someone else’s mood competing with my own?
No thanks. I already had enough experience of that as a middle child.
There was no way I would sign up for that voluntarily.
I got my joy from casual relationships, random make outs, and some good DM flirting. I had no interest in showing every piece of my heart and brain to another woman.
“Well, we just want you to know we’d be excited to meet anyone you bring home.”
“Thanks, Dad. I will keep that in mind.” I nodded, so many rants and musings on the tip of my tongue, and yet my words fell short. This was a conversation for my best friend, Farrah White, but if Miami ended up happening, I wanted to surprise her.
And then drop the lore that was the last three months of my love life.
What I also didn’t want to say was that the first person I thought I wanted to trust with my heart and basketball ruined that chance for everyone.
Especially for those who had to deal with the public eye. One way or another, I had convinced myself my heart was safest in the confines of the sport, within the safety of hardwood courts.
And I had yet to be proven wrong.