ARMAND
I hated this shit.
I really, really hated this shit, the awkward phase of joining a new team with established chemistry, that new guy feeling. That odd man out crap. I fucking despised it, and I’m sure my face revealed my extreme animosity the second I stepped onto the Cyclones practice court. When I saw my stepfather, who was one of the senior members of the team, I’m not ashamed to admit I wanted to break and run. Leland McClain made me confront issues I didn’t ever want to face.
What made things worse was how nice everyone was. Nice, inviting, downright hospitable.
What the fuck?
Didn’t they know who I was, what I was? Didn’t they know I’d beat the shit out of any one of them if they pissed me off? Didn’t they know I operated on a hair trigger? Were they too dumb to see I wasn’t nobody’s friend? Well, nobody but Burgess Scott Smith, Jr. Damn, not only was I on a new team, but a new team of dummies.
The coach, though? Now, he was my speed. He was a yelling, screaming, asshole. I could vibe with him.
“All right, motherfuckers! Gather ‘round. Wait, where the fuck is Walker?” Coach Duke thundered. He was tall and wide, a dark-skinned man in a white Cyclones polo shirt and khaki pants. He kind of reminded me of that dude from that one show—The Unit.
“He had to hit the bathroom, Coach,” Polo Logan said. I didn’t know Polo personally, but of course I knew him when I saw him.
“He stays his ass in the bathroom. I thought his wife was pregnant, not him! The fuck he acting like he got a baby sitting on his bladder for?!” Coach Duke yelled. Damn, did this dude ever not yell? Shit!
“Here he comes. Youngin’, bring your ass on!” That was my mother’s husband. I made sure to keep my eyes off him. Like I said before, we were straight, but that was only because he was good to my mom. We weren’t ever going to be buddies.
Never damn ever.
“All right, now that you’re all here, let me introduce you to your new teammate, Armand Daniels! He’s related to McClain, as most of you know, and he’s talented as hell!” the coach announced, and yes, he was still yelling.
I lifted my eyes from the shiny court floor to watch as the group of players nodded and greeted me. In return, I gave them a halfhearted, “’Sup.”
“Daniels, I want you to follow me. The rest of y’all know what to do. Isom, you got it today,” Coach Duke boomed, handing practice over to his assistant. A moment later, I was following him off the practice court through the Cyclones complex to his huge office and taking the seat he offered me in front of his desk.
“Just a moment,” he said, answering the phone on his desk that was already ringing as we entered the office. I had no idea why he needed to see me privately. I’d already endured conference calls with Nate and the general manager. I knew what was expected of me; it wasn’t like this was my first rodeo when it came to organizations, new coaches, new everything. I also knew while I was guaranteed to meet those expectations on the court, it wouldn’t be enough.
It never was.
I tuned whatever conversation he was having out as I let my eyes tour his office. It was par for the course as far as those types of office spaces went—expensive furniture, diplomas on the walls, trophy cases, championship rings on display. Same old same old. Coach Marteese Duke was a legendary college basketball coach before taking the helm for the Cyclones. Before that, he was once an NBA legend, a notable point guard for the Celtics. He was a man who commanded respect, and I liked him for his gruffness if nothing else. I really hoped he wasn’t about to say some shit that would piss me off.
“Sorry about that, Daniels,” he said, pulling my attention from the white walls and dark furniture to him.
“No problem. Uh…is there some paperwork I need to fill out or something? I thought I handled all that already,” I replied.
“No. No paperwork. I wanted to give you the information I promised Nate Moore I’d pass on to you.”
“Oh…what info?” I asked, frowning.
He lifted a piece of paper from his desk and held it up. “Your appointment confirmation.”
“Appointment confirmation? What? I need another physical or something? A drug test? Already done.”
“No. Your therapy appointment.”
As I sat up straight in my chair, my frown deepened. “Therapist? I didn’t make a therapy appointment. I mean…I’m going to, but I ain’t made one yet. I ain’t had the chance.”
Coach Duke nodded. “Nate figured as much, so he called and asked that we handle it for you. The therapist’s name is Alvin Charles. He’s a friend to the organization and has worked with a lot of the players and staff in the past. He’s taking you on as a special favor to the GM.”
“I…what? Y’all can’t make me see some dude I don’t know,” I said, fighting hard not to go completely off. “I ain’t y’all’s slave!”
“No, you’re not. You’re a Cyclones Organization employee. You’re also a young man a good friend of mine believes in. I’ve known Nathan Moore for years. So have the owners. He’s the only reason you’re here, him and his promise that you’d work on that temper of yours that’s flaring up right now. The therapist is a deal-breaker, Daniels.”
I stared at this man, clenching my fists as they rested on the arm of the chair. I didn’t respond verbally, and it took everything in me not to climb over that desk and fuck this man up. Then I felt it, that familiar sense of time slipping out of my hands, of everything around me fading, until I heard, “Armand.”
My eyes snapped up from where they’d wandered to the floor without me realizing it, landing on the phone sitting atop Duke’s desk. Was that Nathan Moore’s voice I heard, or was I hearing shit?
“Armand,” he repeated. It was Nathan.
“Huh?” I said, feeling disoriented as hell. Then I redirected my attention to Duke. “You called him or something?”
He nodded, moving the phone closer to me.
“Coach Duke, can you give us a moment alone?” Nate asked.
“Sure thing,” Coach said, his voice calmer than it had been all day.
I heard rather than saw Coach leave the office as the door shut behind him, and then I just stared at the phone.
“Armand, you still there?” Nathan asked.
“I didn’t do nothing,” was how I chose to answer him.
“I know. Your first appointment is in a couple of days. Don’t miss it.”
“Nate—”
“Don’t miss it, and calm your ass down before you go back out on that court unless you’re ready to be benched for good.”
I unclenched my hands and sighed before finally saying, “Yeah.”
ELLA
“Hi, darling. It’s been a while since we’ve chatted. Just wanted to hear your voice and see how things are going in St. Louis. I heard you’re walking for House of DuMont during Fashion Week in Paris. I hate I had to get the news secondhand. Ella…I just…I miss you. Call me back, okay?”
I pulled the phone from my ear after my mother’s message ended, finding myself staring at nothing as I lay in my bed, what seemed to be my favorite spot in this big house. That was probably because I could sleep now, and I was so happy about it that I didn’t want to leave the location of this new miracle. A year ago, sleep was a distant memory and a deep desire all rolled into one big ball of despair. Life was still hard for me, but I’d come far.
Very far.
I’d handed my social media accounts over to a professional the day I checked into the Sankofa Healing Center, and I honestly believe that decision had fueled my recovery. A couple of months ago, I decided to reclaim control of my Instagram account, and as I navigated to the app, I braced myself for what I was sure I would and did find—tag after tag on posts paying tribute, fan art, inspirational quotes. Sighing, I closed the app and my eyes. I didn’t want to think about that part of my life anymore. I didn’t want to have to keep reliving that stuff.
I just wanted to move on.
The chiming of my phone awakened me from a sleep I’d unconsciously drifted into, causing my heart to jump. Grabbing my phone from the bed, I saw the preview of a text message from my Uncle Leland and smiled. I’d been in town for two weeks and hadn’t even called him. I guessed my time was up.
Dinner at my house next Thursday. Seven o’clock. Bring a date if you want to, if you find one who’s brave enough to face me. Can’t wait to see you, baby girl.
Still smiling, I replied: I can’t wait to see you either.
Then I dialed my best friend’s number.