Page 18 of Isolation

“DeAndre is a brother to me. What happened was a tragic accident during a routine practice drill, and the rumors are completely unfounded. Anyone suggesting otherwise is looking to create a situation where there is none.”

The team’s PR manager stepped up. “Additionally, the team has conducted a thorough investigation and concluded the injury was accidental. We’re focused on supporting DeAndre’s recovery and The Wizards’ continued success. Please enjoy some refreshments, and the coaches and players will be available for one-on-one conversations for the next twenty minutes.

The crowd dispersed, and Mateo was immediately surrounded by team executives and sponsors wanting a piece of the new star. I slipped away to order a sparkling water with lime and observe the room.

“He’s good, isn’t he?”

The team’s PR manager, Helen, was next to me, eyeing Mateo with a professional assessment.

I sipped my water. “Handling press or basketball?”

She smiled. “Both. Though handling the press is more important these days. One bad tweet or statement, and months of brand building crumble.”

I recognized the language and nodded. “Perception is reality.”

“You used to be in this world of crisis management, right?”

“Still am. I freelance.”

“It shows. Your two present perfectly. Some of our players’ partners need coaching, but you came pre-trained.”

Her compliment felt hollow, like she was praising a dog for sitting correctly. Still, I smiled, because that’s what a supportive basketball wife would do.

My phone vibrated with a text from an unknown number.

Security footage exists. I’ll get it to you tomorrow.

I stared at the message, sure it was Remi or a reporter fishing for a story. I didn’t respond. Mateo appeared at my side.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just checking on Mason. Mom said he’s fine.”

Mateo nodded. “Ready to head out? We’ve done enough schmoozing for the night.”

I finished my water. “Sure. You answered the question about DeAndre great.”

“Just telling the truth,” he answered.

By the timewe made it home, it was 1:48 a.m. Mateo headed straight for the shower for a post-event ritual I used to find endearing, which he called “washing off the fake.” I heard him turn on the water as I removed my earrings. Ten years together, and we moved like synchronized swimmers, knowing each other’s patterns so well.

I gathered his dirty clothes off the floor and headed to the laundry room opposite the kitchen. I placed the garments on the table, and something hit the counter with a thud. I checkedhis jacket pockets out of instinct, knowing his inability to empty them before taking his clothes off. I pulled a phone out of his pocket, but it wasn’t the latest model iPhone. This looked like a burner from the convenience store. My heartbeat picked up as I examined it. The screen was blank with no apps, messages, or contacts. A factory reset, but it connected to our Wi-Fi, which meant…

I opened the settings, navigated to storage, and found the cloud backup. It was still enabled and linked to an email address I didn’t recognize: [email protected]. A juvenile email for a grown man, but I realized anonymity was the goal. The backup was minimal—only a few random screenshots, a voice memo from three weeks ago, and a note about basketball stats. The date on the memo caught my eye. It was the day before DeAndre’s accident. The shower was still running. I pressed play on the voice memo and held the phone to my ear.

“I’m not sure why I’m recording this, but maybe I’ll remember how it went down when the story starts changing. Coach said he wanted to make an example of DeAndre for making contract demands. It was supposed to be a warning. Not… fuck.” The recording ended abruptly.

I stood with my heart beating wildly, clutching the phone to my chest. The water shut off, and I had seconds to decide what to do—confront him, pretend, or hide the phone. Instead, my instinct kicked in, and I quickly forwarded the voice memo to my own email. Then I hit the factory reset to erase my digital footprint. I slipped it back into the jacket pocket and continued sorting laundry as if nothing had happened.

When I returned to the bedroom, Mateo was sleeping in bed. I climbed in after my shower, listening to his breath deepen. Sleep didn’t come easily, and when I rolled over, I noticed Mateo watching me like a weirdo. It made my skin prickle. I closed myeyes, pretending to go back to sleep, but I could feel his eyes on me long afterward.

An hour or two later, I awoke to a note on the pillow about an early training session. I got dressed and headed to the kitchen to make coffee when the doorbell rang. I didn’t see anyone in the peephole. I opened the door to a small envelope on the doormat. I grabbed it and locked the door. It was a standard flash drive. I grabbed my laptop from the island where I left it last and plugged in the flash drive.

There was no audio, and all I saw was them playing. It happened so fast that I had to rewind. It looked like Mateo drove an elbow into DeAndre’s body, but the angle was weird, and you couldn’t really tell. DeAndre went down hard, clutching his leg until his head hit the ground. The video was subjective, but I couldn’t decipher for sure. The front door opened and startled me so bad I spilled my coffee on the granite countertop.

“Hey, I forgot my… What’s wrong?”

“Remi sent me security footage,” I answered.

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