Page 36 of The Brooklyn Way

“Because you gave yourself to dude for ten years and it went nowhere. I don’t know. Maybe you want to try something different. Maybe you decided that the all the eggs in one basket thing doesn’t work for you. I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not judging. I’m just asking for clarity.”

“Well,” she adjusted the oversized white headband on her head, “I don’t have, nor do I desire to have a roster. Vince hurt me. I can admit that. But even with all of the hurt, wasted years, wasted time, wasted love…” She let her thoughts trail off. “Even with everything that I went through with him, I’m not giving up on having a love like my parents had-- one where both people are committed to one another and monogamous. I would never want to have a roster. I would never want to be on somebody’s roster. Why? Do you have a roster, Cameron?”

“I have,” I admitted. “I didn’t call it by that name, but for all intents and purposes, that’s what it was, a rotation of women.”

Neither of us spoke for a few moments. I turned on the radio to fill some of the silence.

“Does your question have anything to do with the fact that you were getting jealous over Brent whispering in my ear?”

I took my eyes off the road for a second to glance over at her. A sneaky smirk played on her full lips.

“Wasn’t nobody jealous.”

“Cap!” she said, basically vibrating with joy.

“Why does the thought of that make you so happy?”

“Because it’s been a long time since somebody’s been jealous over me. Thank you for that. Even Brent noticed. I think he knows we’re having sex.”

“First of all… you’re welcome. If your old guy wasn’t jealous about you, then I don’t know what the fuck was going on with him.”

She blushed so hard at my words that I could practically feel the heat radiating from her. I let her have a moment to collect herself while I kept talking.

“Secondly,” I continued, “fuck Brent. He’s the biggest damn hound on Jackson Island. I’d bet money that he was bothered by the fact that he didn’t get to shoot his shot first. So, thank you for having good taste and picking me.”

“You’re welcome.” Her giggle was light.

“Ay, Jackson Island is a small town, and I’m only here for a finite number of days. Would it be selfish of me to ask if it could just be me and you, doing this… summer fling thing? While we’re having our… summer fling, I’m not trying to share you. I don’t want like Tuesdays and Fridays while the next dude gets Mondays and Saturdays, and the third—”

“Shut up!” She punched my arm.

It didn’t hurt, but I still pretended to swerve a little bit. “You better stop playing, girl. I’m about to run us off the road.”

“Why are you acting like I’m sleeping with the entire county? If you wanna be exclusive just say that. Don’t try to act like I’m for the streets.”

I gave her thigh a firm squeeze. “Ay, I wanna be exclusive with you… this summer.”

“You don’t have to qualify it, Cameron. I get it. You keep calling it a ‘fling.’ I know what a fling is. Anyway, I just got out of a miserable ten-year relationship. I need to give myself time to deal with that.”

The Cameron Field Summer Skills and Fundamentals Camp was a large undertaking. Initially, when I came up with the idea to host a basketball skills camp, I wasn’t sure I would get much of a turnout. Honestly, Jackson Island’s population had been shrinking for a little less than a decade. When the pandemic hit and people were able to do their jobs from home, anywhere they wanted to, the population had picked up. Young families and people who wanted a life close to the water bought up property and land. But once those remote workers were forced to return to offices in large cities, miles away from the beach, the tides had started to turn again. To say I was surprised by how many kids hit the website when the interest form went out would be a huge understatement. Applications came from all over South Carolina and even as far away as Savannah, Georgia. We had to turn down hundreds of kids, but we accepted even more. In an effort not to have to turn local children away, we decided to break the camp down into four sessions that were staggered by two weeks. It kind of sucked for the kids who weren’t in the first session, because they wouldn’t have as many weeks to learn and grow, but it was the best we could do.

The community center had two gymnasiums with full-size basketball courts and one gym with a smaller half-court. We had moved the athletes from session one to the second court with their coaches. We were about to greet the new athletes of session two.

Just like with session one, the majority of young hopefuls were brought to camp by their mothers. And the mothers had clearly decided that it was the day to do their big one. Women of every shape, size, color, race, and creed poured into the gymnasium. While most of the athletes wore the practice gear they’d been issued along with the sneakers of their choice, the mothers were on something totally different. Some came in what could only be termed club clothes—revealing tops or dresses, shorts, or skirts that barely covered the ass cheeks. Others came dressed the way I presumed that they believed WAGs dressed—five-inch heels, full face, full hair, and appropriate body-hugging dresses with slits that gave you a peek at the leg but still made you use your imagination.

I didn’t judge, but that didn’t keep the other members of my coaching staff from judging.

“Damn.” One of the coaches blew out a soft wolf whistle while taking in a mom wearing a bright red romper. “Who’s her kid? I’m tryna be extra nice to that little nigga today. I want him to take me home for dinner. His mom is looking like what I’m tryna eat.”

I had to get my chuckle out before I could correct him. “Come on, Coach Marlon. Let’s keep it professional. The kids and their parents are our clients.”

“I get you Coach Cameron, but you gotta admit that baby is working with a lot right there.”

While I agreed with his statement, I did find myself comparing the nameless woman to Brooklyn. Unfortunately for her, she came up short.

“She ain’t trying to take you home for dinner, Coach Marlon. They do all this extra shit to try to take the big homie home. They want Coach Cameron at their dinner tables, in their beds and in their bank accounts. They ain’t thinking about the rest of us. They ain’t wear that shit to take home a regular nigga. They’re trying to take home an NBA nigga.” Coach Dave schooled his counterpart.

“Well, shit,” Coach Marlon kept his voice low, “it’s a hundred of them and only one of him. Somebody gon’ have to lower their standards.”

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