Page 13 of Isolation

“You still up?” Mateo’s voice was gruff.

“Yeah. I couldn’t settle. I’m browsing online,” I said, keeping my voice casual.

“You’ve been weird since dinner. Are you good?” he asked, leaning against the door frame.

Wow. The audacity of him asking when he was the one keeping secrets.

“I’m tired, and I have a lot on my mind. One of the wives asked me to help plan the charity event.”

He nodded because what else could he do? “I’m going back to bed. Are you coming?”

I nodded. “I’ll be there in a bit.”

When he was gone, I grabbed my phone, took a screenshot of the conversation, and forwarded everything to my private email, the one Mateo didn’t know about for my sensitive client information.I closed the evidence and shut down my laptop. As someone in crisis management, I smelled bullshit a mile away. Mateo had no idea who he was dealing with. I would figure it out if he had something to hide.

I headed toward our bedroom to the man I once found comforting but now made me hyper aware of every move I made. I slid under the cover and kept to my side of the bed, listening for his breath to even out.

He shouldn’t have been in the way.

Those words echoed in my mind as I stared at the wall. My body was exhausted, but the neurons in my brain were suspicious and busy. Mateo’s mask had slipped enough for me to know it was there. I needed to figure out what was happening and if the man underneath was still someone I recognized.

The locker roomair was thick with post-practice funk. The guys were huddled in small groups, and their voices dropped when I walked by. It reminded me of when I lived in Baltimore, and the neighborhood knew something would pop off. The problem was that I wasn’t sure if I was the one they would plot against or protect.

I leaned against my locker with a towel draped around my neck, trying my best to appear casual. Coach kept me after practice to tell me my minutes were going up. I was in the rotation.

“That drill though…”

My ears picked up on the whispers three lockers down. It was Will talking to Jenkins, a rookie point guard.

“It looked off to me, too. Like, I get contact happens, but that wasn’t regular,” Jenkins replied.

I pretended to focus on my phone. I scrolled through social media, but I was trying hard to hear them.

“Accident,” I muttered to myself, but no one heard me.

Greg, our veteran center, slammed his locker closed, causing me to flinch. I swear he looked at me for a solid three count and then shook his head before grabbing his bag.

“You good?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “Just thinking about how opportunities opened up.”

He left the comment hanging in the air between us like smoke, and I watched his broad back disappear through the doorway. My jaw tightened. The locker room was almost empty. Most of the guys were eager to get home or to the club to celebrate our third win. I should have been out there basking in the W and my sudden rise. Instead, I was here with my ears strained to catch every accusation.

I slammed my locker shut hard enough to stop the chatter in the room. Eyes landed on me, but no one would talk about it to my face. The thing about waiting your turn is wondering if it would ever come. I watched guys with half my basketball IQ get time because they had the right connections, the right story, or look. Meanwhile, I was being told “your time’s coming.” Yet, my knee ached on the cold mornings, reminding me my clock was ticking.

I put in work, and I earned this moment. What happened to Pearson was basketball. Shit happened.

I shook my head not wanting to go there—not now.

“Yo, Mateo.”

I looked up to see Brent, our shooting guard, gesturing toward the door. “Pearson’s sister Remi is at the door for you.”

Before I could get there, she was in the doorway with her arms crossed. Her eyes were bloodshot like she hadn’t slept or had been crying. Her locs were pulled tight, showing the sharp angle of her face. She was wearing scrubs from her PT job, the pink ones with cartoon ducks on them. The happy ducks felt like a mockery of the fury on her face.

“Uh, ma’am? You can’t be here. This is a men’s locker room,” our equipment manager stepped toward her awkwardly but determined.

Remi didn’t even look his way. “I need two minutes with Mateo Bryant.”

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