Page 11 of Isolation

I leaned against the island and crossed my arms. “Is the team good?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” There was a defensive edge to Mateo’s voice.

“Just asking.”

We stared at each other. A few years ago, I would have pushed. I would have called bullshit right to his face, but this Danica had a five-year-old son whose father had sacrificed everything and was finally getting a break. The old Danica had given up her own thriving PR position to support her husband’s dreams.

Mateo broke contact first, reaching for the remote. “They are playing the highlights from the last game. Come watch.”

Just like that, we moved on. Like I hadn’t heard the words, “He shouldn’t have been in the way.” The words echoed in my head like a warning bell.

I walked over and sat next to him on the couch. Mateo sank a three-pointer on the screen, and his face was lit with joy. The commentators gushed about his “overnight success story.” If only they knew the years of setback, the torn ACL that nearly ended everything, or the countless nights I held him down when he questioned if he’d ever get a shot.

“Look at you.” I smiled.

Mateo glanced at me and flashed the old Mateo smile. “Everything we wanted. Crazy, right?”

I nodded but thought about the stranger who took that cryptic phone call. There was a disconnect between the man suddenly keeping secrets and the one finally living his dream.

“Is it?” I asked more to myself than anything.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone was defensive.

I backtracked. “Everything’s just happening so fast.”

“Not really. Did you forget the bench time? We’ve waited for this, Dani.” His expression softened.

For that moment, he almost had me convinced that the changes in him were just natural adjustments to his new status, that my husband wasn’t lying to my face.

“Yeah, it is,” I confirmed.

Mateo reached for my hand and squeezed before turning his attention back to the TV. I watched him, cataloging his expressions, the way his jaw flexed with tension, and how he kept making sure his phone was in his pocket. The Mateo I married was an open book. This version might as well have been written in a language I couldn’t read.

The sportscasters moved on as the highlight reels ended to analyze the team’s prospects for the remainder of the season.

“The addition of Mateo Bryant has completely changed The Wizards’ dynamics,” one guy mentioned enthusiastically.

They had no idea how much had changed. I stood up, needing space. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Cool.” Mateo nodded, still watching the screen.

I heard his phone buzz as I walked away. He didn’t answer, but I could tell his body stiffened.

In the bathroom, I turned on the hot water in the shower, allowing steam to fill the room. I searched my eyes for guidance in the mirror. The woman looking at me looked put together with perfectly laid hair and designer loungewear, but her eyes held a question I was scared to answer. What do you do when you build your life around someone, and now they feel like a stranger?

I took off my clothes and stepped into the hot water, allowing it to wash over me as I replayed the details of the phone call and not to mention the shift in Mateo’s mood. One thing was clear. Whatever it was, it had to be more than basketball.

Mateo had beenasleep for over an hour, and I noticed the clock on my laptop read 1:17 a.m. His snores drifted down the hallway as if nothing was wrong, as if he hadn’t transformed intosomeone else after that phone call. Insomnia was my excuse for sitting up late in my study. My mind raced as I picked apart every weird behavior over the past couple of weeks. Ten years with him, and now he was a stranger. It was enough to have me question my own perception. Still, I knew what I heard.

The study was my non-negotiable room when we got this condo. Mateo wanted his home gym, and I wanted this room that had the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a window with a great view of the neighborhood. Back when I handled crisis management for politicians and celebrities who couldn’t keep their dick in their pants, this was where I crafted their redemption narratives. Now, I was trying to piece my own together.

I rubbed my temples as exhaustion seeped into my bones. The Mateo I married was kind, ambitious, and focused. But the new version had a cold tone—like it belonged to someone I didn’t recognize. I tapped my phone and opened Mateo’s IG, scrolling through his tagged photos. The algorithm was popping with his new rise to relevance in the basketball world. The highlight reels, fan pages, and sports analysts were breaking down his journey to the unexpected Wizard playoff chances. Three weeks ago, he could walk into a grocery store with a second glance, but now, there were articles analyzing his journey to stardom.

A notification slid down from the top of the screen—a direct message from an account I didn’t recognize. The username was a random number with no profile pic. My PR instincts kicked in. It was an anonymous account. They never brought good news.I tapped the screen, expecting it to be a thirsty ass fan trying to get to Mateo through me or even some hater with nothing better to do than talk shit to his wife. Instead, there were five single words.

Does he tell you everything?

I gasped as grainy footage came through. Mateo entered what looked like the practice facility. There was nothing weird about that, except it was timestamped at 1:45 a.m. two nights ago.

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