contract isn’t up for another two years. I’d resigned myself to spending the first five years of my NBA career on a losing team and just distinguishing myself on the court so I’d get good looks from other teams when it was time to go.
“You shitting me?” I ask.
“Nope.” Jared grins like a buccaneer. He’s a hard-ass negotiator and probably relishes the prospect. “They know they could get a few quality players from Houston for you.”
“Houston?” My mouth drops open. Houston is in the playoffs again this year, as we speak. They might even take it all. “Houston wants me?”
“Bad.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “They’re focused on the playoffs right now, of course, but some of the front-office execs reached out on the sly. They’re looking ahead.”
A disturbing thought occurs to me. “So are the Waves open to this because they don’t think I’ll be back a hundred percent?”
Rehab was long and grueling, and by the time I could get back on court, I’d lost almost all of my second season. Playing those last couple of months was more a test for the upcoming season than anything else, seeing if I still had my strength and explosiveness off the dribble. My distance-shooting hasn’t been affected. Jag had me shooting from anywhere on court seated in a wheelchair from the early days of rehab.
“No, they aren’t worried that you won’t be back full-steam,” Jared assures. He knows that would bother me—the brass thinking I couldn’t perform anymore. “If anything, it’s the opposite. Everyone saw how good you looked out there at the end of last season. If they want to build, to add some key pieces to the roster, you’re their most valuable asset to get them.”
“Huh.” I lean back in my seat and consider leaving Deck and Jag. Even Glad and I have become friends.
Winning has always been the most important thing in my life. I’ll never get used to losing, but I was getting used to those guys. We were just starting to feel like a real team.
“Did you say ‘huh?’” Jared asks, a frown snapping his brows together. “’Cause I don’t speak grunt. You want me to move forward or not? And if you say ‘not,’ you’re a fool.”
He’s right. If I’m stuck in this place, mired in too-few memories of Iris and the little time we had together, something in my life should be moving forward. Why not my career?
“Yeah.” I smile at the rosy-cheeked waitress and accept the bill. “Let’s see where it goes.”
And if it takes me to Houston, I’m closer to a championship than I thought I would be for years. That should make me happy. And it does. I can’t be ungrateful. A percentage of a percentage of people live the way I do, have the things I have, but something’s still missing. I don’t have to ask what.
I know what it is. I know who it is.
I just don’t know where to find her.
36
Iris
Death has a way of uniting or dividing. Families come together and draw comfort from each other or fight about wills and the things that have kept them apart. It can go either way.
Even with the funeral over and everyone gone home, and MiMi’s small refrigerator stuffed with Tupperware and leftovers, I’m not sure what her death will do to our family. Lo hasn’t seen her mother or spoken to her in years. She avoided Aunt May even at the funeral and shows no sign of breaking the silence. I can’t blame her. What Aunt May did was unacceptable, even more so to me now that I have a child of my own. I could never choose a man over her, much less accept his word as truth when my daughter accused him of wrong. But that’s what Aunt May did, and I’m afraid Lo will never forgive her.
And then there’s my mother.
Her beauty hasn’t faded. She had me so young she’s barely forty. Heads still swivel when she walks past. Her body is a trail of winding curves—breasts and hips and butt and thighs. My father diluted my skin color, but hers is a flawless mixture of darkened honey and caramel, and her hair, slightly coarser than mine, is an unrelieved fall of black to her waist. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
And she could never get over herself enough to find out if she had anything else to offer.
“It’s been a long time since I was back home,” she says, glancing around the tiny kitchen before her eyes settle on me. “You should have told me you were here. If I’d known you were so close, I would have—”
“Told Caleb?” I cut in over whatever lie she was poised to tell. “I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” She touches her throat. From years of observation, I know it’s her tell. She can look you dead in the eyes, a picture of innocence, while she tries to sell you a goldmine on the bayou, but she can’t keep that hand off her throat.
“What I mean is that I know about the apartment in Buckhead.” I wipe down the counter, cleaning because I can’t think what else to do while navigating this awkward conversation with my mother. “He still paying your way, Mama? Caleb told me he had you well under control.”
“Control?” She snaps a brow up, gentile disdain perfected. “No such thing.”
“Did you know?” I toss the rag, sopping wet, into the sink, giving up on any semblance of cleaning. Considering the NDA, I won’t ask her explicitly, but I can read her. I need to know if she sold me out. “You were so thrilled about all that ‘security’ that came with having his baby, you never considered what it was costing me.”
Her eyes flicker, but not with surprise. Did she know? Or at least suspect? “I really don’t know what you mean,” she says.