Page 17 of Isolation

“Some bitter woman throws an accusation, and now, you’re interrogating me?”

“I just asked a simple question.”

“No, you’re questioning my character based on someone who has every reason to use me as a scapegoat.”

Mateo’s face was hard, and the way his eyes darted when I tried to hold his gaze concerned me.

“Are you saying there’s no footage I should be concerned about?” I pressed in a neutral tone.

“It’s nothing. Can we go inside? I’m beat.”

I could smell a scandal brewing from a mile away. I knew the difference between a person who was wrongly accused and a guilty one trying to manage perceptions. Mateo deflected, saying it was nothing instead of saying there was nothing.

If your husband did this, you’ll be next if you get in his way.

Mateo reached for my hand as he walked to console me. “Hey, you good?”

I smiled a smile I perfected for these kinds of situations. “It’s been a long night. I’m tired.”

Mateo’s thumb stroked my knuckles, and I cataloged his expression. Right now, his expression told me he was terrified of something.

What did my husband do to DeAndre Pearson, and what would he do to me if I dug for answers?

The next day,we headed to a press event—another performance where I’d have to deliver the right amount of humility and pride. I had on a cream-colored blazer and my favorite gold hoop earrings. I wore what I called my basketball wife’s special makeup. It was the face that said I was successful in my own right, but tonight, it was about my man.

The venue was modern and sleek with minimalist furniture and concrete floors. The overhead light shone bright, designed to always keep everyone camera ready. The team’s logo was projected as a constant reminder of whose narrative we were selling tonight.

“Over here, Mrs. Bryant!” A photographer waved, and I slid my arm through Mateo’s and positioned us at an angle where his height complemented my curves. We radiated contentment and success. The camera flashed, capturing a perfect moment between the devoted wife and a rising star.

“Are you good?” Mateo murmured in my ear after a series of photos.

“Always,” I replied. It was true in this moment… I was good. Hell, I was Danica Bryant, the PR agent who could make a sexscandal look like a simple misunderstanding by breakfast. My ability to perform under pressure wasn’t the question tonight. The question was whether my husband was the man I thought I married.

“Mateo, how does it feel to have stepped into Pearson’s shoes?” A reporter thrust a microphone into Mateo’s face. I felt him tense under my touch.

“I wouldn’t put it that way. No one can replace DeAndre. He’s a good friend and has his own unique talent. I’m focused on contributing to the team while he recovers.”

Perfect answer—respectful, humble, and team oriented. Mateo had always been media savvy, but lately, his responses almost sounded rehearsed.

“Mrs. Bryant, how has life changed since Mateo became a starter?”

“We’re grateful for the opportunity and that Mateo gets to do what he loves. The spotlight doesn’t change who we are at home. However, our son is enjoying the extra attention at school.”

Cameras flashed, and Mateo’s hand moved to the small of my back, an affectionate gesture that felt strangely proprietary right now.

“Mateo, let’s talk about the winning shot in the last game. Twenty seconds on the clock, The Wizards were down by one—Walk us through what was happening in your mind.”

Mateo’s shoulders relaxed, and he smiled. “Wow, it was surreal. Coach called the play for Tray, but when the defense shifted, I ended up being open at the top of the key. Tray made the right read, got the ball to me, and honestly, time slowed down. I had practiced that shot so many times in gyms or even in my driveway as a kid. I knew I was good when it left my hand.”

“Danica, did you know your husband had that kind of performance in him?” another reporter asked.

I played my role, laughing warmly. “I’ve always known what my husband is capable of. It’s just taken the rest of the world to catch up.”

The crowd chuckled, and Mateo pulled me close, pressing a kiss to my temple. For the cameras, I leaned in.

“One more question. Diane, did you have something?” The team’s PR manager asked.

Diane, a serious-looking reporter, stepped forward. “Mateo, there are rumors surrounding the circumstances of DeAndre Pearson’s injury. Some sources suggest it wasn’t as accidental as reported. Would you care to comment?”

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