ARMAND
He’s coming up on the left, pivot right, dribble, fake a pass, eyes on the goal, gotta get the ball there, but this nigga is on me on me.
“Daniels!” That was Brickey letting me know he was open, but I couldn’t shake the big motherfucker who was guarding me.
Shit.
Sweat rolled down my face as I dribbled, moving left—then right—then left at top speed, managing to make my opponent stumble a little but enough to give me an opening, I let the ball go, watching as it sailed through the air…and missed the damn hoop.
Mother. Fuck.
The buzzer sounded signaling the beginning of halftime, and I couldn’t wait to get to the locker room and away from the rude-ass fans I knew would be talking shit as we left the court. I was good as long as they didn’t throw nothing at me because I didn’t mind climbing the bleachers and fucking someone up. Yeah, we were down by ten points, but that shit couldn’t be blamed on me just because of this one missed shot. At least there was a chance I could’ve made it. Brickey’s ass was almost guaranteed to miss.
I kept my eyes ahead of me, moving into the tunnel with jeers from fans filling my ears.
Fuck them.
Fuck all of them.
It amazed me how a bunch of folks who couldn’t dribble a ball let alone run up and down a court like we did night after night passed judgement on our performances. Out of shape, miserable, no talent having, fickle assholes—that’s what they were.
Once I made it to the locker room, I headed to my locker and my phone, ignoring the looks my teammates were shooting at me and only half-listening to the coach go over the highlights, or really, the lowlights, of the first half of the game. A locker room attendant handed me a water bottle full of what I knew to be a drink suffused with electrolytes, a specialized blend a member of the team’s dietary crew prescribed for me since I was known to sweat more than most. I was quickly navigating to Twitter to see if my fuckup was a trending topic when I felt someone standing over me. Raising my eyes, I stared at the attendant who usually would’ve handed me my drink and disappeared. He looked…concerned, but I had no idea why. I stared back at him for a moment, and I guess that was enough to make him leave because he did. Shaking my head, I refocused on my phone and the Twitter app to see that I was a trending topic.
I sighed, glancing up long enough to see that more eyes were on me.
What the fuck?
Yeah, I missed the shot, but got damn! Everyone missed a shot from time to time, even Drayveon Walker!
I closed my eyes and told myself I couldn’t start fucking my teammates up. I’d promised Nathan Moore, my agent who was really more than my agent, that I would act like I had some sense and stop fighting people. But this shit was just strange. To avoid doing some shit that whoever I did it to would regret, I went against my first mind and actually looked at some of the tweets that mentioned me, my eyes narrowing and my heart rate accelerating with each post I read.
I know damn well I’m not seeing what I’m seeing. This shit can’t be true.
I kept scrolling and reading and scrolling and reading until I could feel my temple pulsing, my knee started bouncing, and heat began crawling up my neck to my face.
These motherfuckers…
“Daniels!”
My head snapped up to see the locker room emptying and Coach standing over me. I didn’t respond to him because I couldn’t.
I fucking couldn’t.
“You heard?” he asked, his voice its usual low rumble, his face bearing its standard impassive expression. I suppose he knew there was no need to elaborate.
Still, I didn’t, couldn’t respond.
Coach shook his head and sighed before turning to leave but stopped in his tracks when I said, “So everybody knew but me?”
Glancing at me over his shoulder, he shook his head again. “No. I knew it was in the works, but I didn’t find out the trade had been finalized until during the game. Look, you’re talented and I like you, but the owners see you as a liability.”
“A what?!” I yelled.
“A liability. You’re too…unpredictable, volatile. Listen, the best thing you can do right now is get back out on that court and make this last Pistons game your best.”
I had a lot of respect for Coach, a black man who understood me. At least I believed he did. Turns out he didn’t, but that wasn’t surprising. No one understood me. Rarely did anyone even try.
“Nah, y’all got it. If I’m out, I’m out. I ain’t playing no got damn second half,” I bit out.
He sighed as he exited the locker room. “Well, Daniels…that’s a damn disappointment.”
And that? That’s when I blacked the fuck out.