Damien stood at the glass entrance to the Refurbished Dreams Center, waiting for the world’s slowest door to slide open. It had the same squeaky sound as a loose wheel on a grocery cart. Shaking his head, he made a mental note to spray the corners and crevices down with WD-40 at his earliest convenience.
The dysfunctional entryway was one of many things on the center’s must-fix list. He shuddered, thinking about the stripped, faded, blue-and-black lobby sofas that looked like someone had stolen them from the set of a ’90s sitcom.
But no complaints about the fitness equipment. Everything from weights, stability and resistance gear, to their aquatic center was state of the art. He waved at one of the kids on the treadmill. I need to work off all of that bad food I ate during the road trip.
A plastic chair whizzed by his head and crashed into the wall.
“What. In. The. Hell?”
His mentee, Kelvin, strode away from Carly, the volunteer physical therapist. Damien pressed his lips together to control his breathing, more upset at Carly than Kelvin.
They’d planned to tell the young man together that his torn ACL wasn’t recovering the way they’d like. An ACL injured for the second time in two and a half years, from playing college basketball.
No-nonsense Carly Ferrero was not the best person to give this news. And knowing Kelvin, whose intellect matched master-level MIT students, he’d probably asked leading questions and figured out that if he couldn’t regain stability in his knee, there was no hope of making it to the pros.
Damien dashed across the turf to where Carly stood, feet spread apart and arms crossed, while his mentee shook with rage and regret. The rage would extinguish, settle, and then die.
But regret could be tricky and not easily smothered.
Regret clung like a hardened clump of earth wedged in the sole of a shoe. And it lodged itself, settling so deep that you carried the weight for the rest of your life. The weight made everything else in your world seem hard and bleak and impossible. Yeah, Damien knew all about regret.
“Kelvin,” he said in a firm voice, demanding obedience, and then settled his hands over the young man’s shaking shoulders. “My office. Now.”
The young man shrugged off his hands but still heeded the order.
Following Damien’s gesture toward the patchwork chair in front of the desk, Kelvin dropped his stiff body into the cushy seat.
Damien reclined against the desk, feet spread in front of Kelvin, and stared at his mentee. He knew—God, he knew—how the young man felt. Like his world had crumbled before his very eyes. The wasted hours spent on practice, films, and studying the art of the game. The hours spent traveling to the private school his parents had scrimped and saved for so he could have a good education and a chance to shine in front of the scouts.
“Man, I know how you—”
“Don’t say it, D.” The young man sliced a hand in the air. “Don’t tell me you know how I feel. I’m not you. I … ” Kelvin balled his fist then pressed it against his forehead. “I’ve got nothing. Nothing!” He thrust himself from the seat and began pacing the cramped office.
After a few minutes, he finally settled, leaning against the wall, his high-top fade smushed against the dull flower-and-vines wallpaper.
“I didn’t come here to find another job or another dream. I was made to play basketball. When I go to sleep, I dream up plays to break down the opponent’s defense. I think of all possible scenarios when I take the ball. I’m a point guard!” He pointed to his chest. “Fuuuck!”
Damien pushed off the desk and walked over to stand in front of Kelvin. Knowing his words would go unheard, he grabbed and hugged the young man, feeling the pain and agony rising like thick smoke, clogging and choking, suffocating and blinding.
The emotions nearly pulled Damien back to a time where he only saw himself as a pitcher, a baseball player. He quickly calmed his breathing and surfed through the urge to give in to despair.
“What do I do?” Kelvin leaned against Damien’s chest. Hot tears splashed on his cotton shirt. “All the money my parents spent. The time. I was going to pay them back. Buy them the nicest crib. Make sure my pops could retire after I played a few years in the NBA.”
“I know, Kelvin. This is unexpected. But, son, your life isn’t over. There are other options. For one, you’re crazy smart. Draw up another play for your life and take some time to relax and think. Your life has been nonstop basketball. Take a breather and enjoy college. Have fun and spend time with your family and friends.”
Kelvin did not smile and promise to think over his options. As expected, as Damien himself had done ten years ago, the young man pulled away and allowed his anger to rebuild.
“Have fun, huh?” He chuckled and kicked out his foot. “Having fun isn’t gonna put food on my family’s table. Having fun won’t help my little brother get into private school.”
They weren’t talking about having fun anymore but rather being the provider for his family. “You gotta stop putting this pressure on yourself. Your family loves you. For you.” He thumped Kelvin’s chest. Intelligent hazel eyes lifted to meet his.
“Not because you’re supposed to be their gravy train and not because they saw dollar signs for every assist and three-pointer you made. They sacrificed those hours because basketball made you happy.”
Damien very much felt like the pot calling the kettle black. When his injury had happened, he’d let his grades slip and sank into a deep depression. Then a five-foot-eight angel named Leslie Taylor had breathed life and slapped sense into him. Kelvin had Damien to help. This time it would be different.
The young man leaned back onto the wall and shook his head. “Man, I knew … I knew this time the injury was more serious. It felt much worse than it did the first time I tore my ACL. And I trained longer and harder, hoping what my gut told me wasn’t true.”
Damien stared at Kelvin staring at the floor.
A loud ding cut the silence. Kelvin pulled his phone from the baggy jeans that hung just below his waist. Just a few months ago, he’d worn fitted pants, shirts tucked in and ironed, and hair nicely trimmed.
Now he wore a wrinkled black shirt two times his size and hair a month past due a haircut. The young man was slipping away.
Kelvin gripped the phone, scowled, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “I have somewhere I gotta be.”
“Let me guess, Big Ron, right?”
Kelvin had told him a few years ago that Big Ron had approached him to sell drugs. A large university full of stressed-out students meant steady business for the ruthless drug dealer.
He’s not gonna get Kelvin killed like he did Roger.
The young man shrugged and looked down at his shoes.
“Guys like Ron are the ones who view you as a gravy train. They use your popularity to expand their networks.” Damien jerked his tie, frustrated that his mentee had already begun the tumble down the rabbit hole. “Don’t become one of those sad, made-for-TV movies.”
Kelvin’s mocha-colored face became a blank canvas.
Damien fought the urge to hang his head, knowing he wouldn’t be getting through to him today. “Fine, man. Just … meet me at my professional office next Wednesday. I want to talk to you outside of here.”
Kelvin nodded, looking away from Damien’s gaze.
“You better keep your word. Don’t make me waste my time coming all the way down to Queensbridge to beat some sense into you.”
Kelvin’s lip twitched. “It’s expressly forbidden for a mentor to abuse his or her mentee physically.” He attempted to smile at his joke.
“I think Leslie will make an exception.” Damien slapped his thigh. “Remind me to tell you what she did to me, which is why I created the code of conduct.”
Kelvin looked up again, this time giving his mentor his full attention. “All right, D. I promise.”
“I expect you to be a man of your word.” Damien stared into the young man’s bloodshot eyes. “I’ll see you next week.”