Page 1 of Isolation

I openedmy eyes before my alarm went off. It was something I’d learned to do over the years—anticipate. I picked up my cell phone, noticing it was 5:20 a.m. The room was that gray-blue color, the one that came before the sun ascended.

My wife, Danica, was asleep with her back to me. The rise and fall of her shoulder was quiet as I watched momentarily, wondering if she dreamed about something interesting.

As if someone had turned down the volume in the world, our bedroom was quiet, except for the muffled sounds of cartoons coming from the living room. Mason, my son, must already be awake. I swear, sleep and that kid have had beef since birth.

I slowly shifted out of bed. If nothing else, being benched for two years had taught me patience. Danica stirred but pulledthe white sheet over her shoulder, her hair sprawling over the pillow. My chest tightened. Everything I was doing was for her—for us.

I padded to the bathroom, noticing the cool floor under my feet. Our condo wasn’t huge, but it belonged to us. We’d been here since before our son was born, back when Danica worked outside the home in PR, and I hoped to be picked up as a breakout star in the NBA. Boy, these walls have seen the struggle.

I shut the bathroom door and took a piss before flipping on the light. I squinted under the brightness, noticing bags under my eyes, but whatever. I washed my hands and splashed water on my face before grabbing my toothbrush. I squeezed out a line of the minty paste that helped wake me up a little more. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, asking the question of the day, the one I didn’t have answers to. Would it be another Thursday on the bench, or would today change everything?

I spit, rinsed, and put on deodorant. My routine was mindless, giving my mind too much time to wander. Coach had been watching me, not the regular assessment, but like he wanted me to show him something. Hell, I’d been ready. I’d spent too much time riding pine and watching niggas with half my basketball IQ get time. It had been two years of “good effort” or “we’ll get you next time.” Two years of Danica saying the right things at the right time about timing and patience. She shelved her career to support mine, only for me to come home with a bent neck from watching from the sidelines. That shit needed to end today.

Back in the bedroom, I rummaged through my drawer for practice gear—my lucky socks and some good compression shorts. I slipped on a shirt and looked at Danica again. She was now facing me, but her eyes remained closed. I pulled the coversup over her shoulders. My fingers lingered on her soft skin. She was warm, real,solid.

“I love you,” I whispered, knowing she didn’t hear me.

I closed the bedroom door carefully behind me and headed down the hallway to the living room. Mason was perched on our gray leather sofa, legs swinging. He had a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and examined each piece before popping it into his mouth.

“Yo, you checking each piece for poison or what?” I asked in a low tone.

Mason whipped his head around, breaking into a gap-toothed smile that hit me square in my chest.

“Daddy!”

“That’s who I be. Why you up mad early, man?”

He shrugged.

“You want some?” Mason asked, offering me the box.

I took a handful, shook my hand like I was about to throw dice, and threw them into my mouth.

“Thanks, but you know Mom doesn’t want you eating right out of the box, right?”

“She was asleep,” he explained.

I studied his face. He was a perfect blend of me and Danica. He had her eyes but my jawline. I could tell he wasn’t into the show he was watching with talking animals. It was just a noise filler. I sat next to him on the couch.

“What’s up with you being up so early? Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.

Mason looked down, suddenly shy. “I wanted to see you.”

My chest cracked with warmth seeping through my ribs. “Yeah?”

Mason nodded. “You’re going to play today? For real play?”

Damn, his question hit heavy. Mason had been to enough games to know the difference between getting time and benchwarming. Kids really noticed shit, even when you thought they weren’t paying attention.

“That’s my plan,” I told him, hoping it didn’t sound as hollow as it did to me.

“Can I come? I want to wear my jersey—the one like yours.”

I rubbed a hand over my facial hair, the hair bristling against my palm. “Not today, but we can work on layups and dribbling this weekend.”

Mason’s little shoulders dropped, but he recovered quickly. “Promise?”

I held my hand out for a fist bump, and he tapped his tiny fist against mine.

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