“And what’s wrong with sounding like a woman?” Mom’s offended words chastise me.
“You know what I mean. Like all in my feelings. Desperate.” I catch her sharp look. “Not saying that all women are desperate. I just mean I sound like I would do anything to be with her.”
“Based on what you told me about her family history, maybe she needs someone who’s willing to take an outrageous chance on her. It sounds like she hasn’t had the easiest life and has seen a lot of bad in men.”
“I don’t get why she’s still with that asshole.” I run an agitated hand through the hair dipping over my eyes. “If you could have felt what was between us that night at the game. Neither one of us could look away. It’s still there for me, and I know it’s still there for her. I know how it sounds, but I’m not making this up.”
“She has a child with this man, August. You said she was on bed rest and couldn’t work. She probably has very little of her own. You never know what a mother has to do to do what’s best for her child.”
She grins.
“Even knowing I loved Matt, it was a long time before I let him fully into my life. I wanted to protect you. It hadn’t been long since your father died, and you were so impressionable. I had to be careful about who I brought around you. I had to be careful about everything. It seems to me circumstances have made your Iris more vulnerable than she ever wanted to be.”
My Iris.
It feels like all the stars and planets and the moon itself will have to align for her to be my Iris.
“I know you don’t like the comparisons with your father,” Mom interrupts my thoughts. “But there is one thing you inherited from him for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“Timing.” Her smile turns fond, her eyes distant. “He’d hold the ball ’til the last possible second. I’m screaming from the bleachers for him to take the shot, but he’d just dribble and watch the clock, and at just the right moment, he’d take the shot.”
“You’re right.” I laugh, because I remember watching tape of him when I was younger and thinking the same thing.
“As immature and impetuous as your father sometimes was off the court,” Mom says, “on the court, he was a study in patience and vision. Seeing the right opportunity and taking the shot when it was time. He used to call it ‘letting the game come to him.’ Try that approach with Iris. Let the game come to you, and at the right time, take the shot.”
My phone rings, startling us both. I grimace when I see Lloyd’s name onscreen. I’m a grown-ass man. I need to take care of my career the same way I’m taking care of this leg, and that means talking to Lloyd. “I need to take this. I’ve been dodging my agent.”
“Alright.” She stands and dusts off her jeans. She drops a kiss on my unruly curls. “And at some point, you will get a haircut, right?”
“Rehab hair. This is why I don’t let it grow.” I sift my fingers through the thick curls flopping everywhere and answer Lloyd’s call.
Lloyd takes forty-five minutes to tell me ten minutes’ worth of information, so I’m chomping at the bit to get off the phone by the time he’s bringing the conversation to a close.
“I’ll email those contracts over for you to look at and sign,” he says. “We need to get that commercial in the can. I suggested we not do it in your San Diego jersey, just to be safe.”
“It’s like that?” I ask, not sure if I’m excited or insulted that San Diego may be seriously considering trading me. At the start of the season it would have been what I wanted, but I had just started to feel like we were building something special.
“We’ll see.” Lloyd’s voice is diplomatic and dissembling. “I like to have contingencies. No telling when that commercial will air or where you’ll be by then. Oh, and did you speak to that Sylvia lady?”
“What Sylvia lady?” I’m only half listening, re-opening my dad’s box and picking through it to make sure I didn’t overlook anything significant.
“She called me this morning saying she’s left several voicemails for you. Something about NBA charity stuff and you wanting to volunteer in Baltimore.”
“Oh, yeah. I do. I have a ton of missed calls. I’ll call her back.”
“You start physical therapy next week, right?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’ve been doing some upper-body stuff but wasn’t cleared for weight on the leg before. Now I am, so we’ll go into beast mode next week.”
“Bleacher Report approached me about documenting your road to recovery.” I hear Lloyd’s lips smacking in anticipation over the phone. “Like a web series or a special.”
“Nah. I don’t want to do the circus act, sympathy, look-at-him-go thing.”
“It’s a good idea to stay in the public eye. That next contract is mostly about how you do on the court, but it doesn’t hurt if they know you can put butts in seats. And let’s not forget you were Rookie of the Year, despite missing the last games of the regular season.”
“That was probably a consolation prize,” I say, resentment festering in my words. “They knew Caleb’s play was dirty and didn’t want to give it to him. Giving me the award was their silent protest since his daddy always finds a way to protect him.”