Page 22 of Isolation

It was3:30 a.m. when I finally slipped out of bed. I moved to Danica’s workspace, tapped the computer’s key to wake it up, and slipped into the chair. I shouldn’t have been invading her privacy, but I needed to know what she knew, and self-preservation was a hell of a motivator.

I tapped in the four-digit code for Mason’s birthday. The screen unlocked, and I winced at the bright light. Danica had always been meticulous about locking her devices, but after ten years together, I knew her patterns.

“Let me see what you’ve been up to,” I muttered, navigating the browser history.

Her recent Google searches were of the gym, security blind spots, falsification of gym access logs, and NBA injury conspiracy cases.

“Fuck.” The word dropped out of my mouth like a stone in a silent room.

My hand hovered over the mouse. I had the urge to close it and pretend I never saw it, but I wanted to know how deep this went. I clicked on one of the links to an article about suspicious injuries in professional sports. Danica had highlighted a passage—In many cases, unfortunate coincidences were later revealed to be deliberate attempts to secure positions or eliminate favored players.

My stomach dropped. The words blurred as my memories flashed through my mind. Coach Von in my ear, “Sometimes opportunities need help to present themselves.”

DeAndre was a good dude, even though he showboated most of the time. Both of our contracts were almost up, and with me, I had nothing to justify another team taking another chance on me. At thirty-two, I was finished, another “almost” story for the neighborhood. Coach Von put the idea in my head indirectly. He just hinted and made implications. It’s business. DeAndre’s career wouldn’t be over, just redirected. The NBA scouts were coming for him.

Here I was, starting point guard in this beautiful condo with Italian leather furniture. Mason was in a private school with the STEM program that Danica researched for months, and my wife was connecting the dots I thought I’d erased.I closed the article and searched her history—How to record conversations. Admissible evidence in civil cases.

My heart pounded so hard. Our sex tonight was part of her investigation. I replayed her questions in my head, trying to remember what I’d admitted.

“Anything. Everything. I’d change the whole damn world if that’s what it took.”

I hadn’t confessed anything. I hadn’t admitted anything specific. Still, the implications were there, and Danica was smart. She tried to get me.

I should delete her search history, which would only confirm her suspicions that I’d been here violating her privacy and covering my tracks again. My phone vibrated in the pocket of my sweats, startling me. I pulled it out.

A text:

You’re up next. Don’t disappoint.

Up next for what? The starting position I was already in? Oh, was this about another rookie who had been threatening the coach’s control of the team rotation? There was a kid from Duke who had been vocal about Von’s coaching decisions, and Von pulled me aside to complain about it.

Was this a reminder of our arrangement? A reminder of this opportunity? Coach Von had been around the league for decades. Metaphorically, he knew where all the bodies were buried. If anyone connected me to DeAndre’s injury, it would be his word against mine. In this league, a veteran coach with championship rings always outranked a player who got lucky. Unless there was evidence.

I focused on the computer and searched for security footage. What if there was something the cameras caught that day? I was tired. I closed the browser, returning her work area to the state I found it in. I returned to our bedroom but paused in the hallway, suddenly unwilling to lie next to my wife while these thoughtscircled in my head. Instead, I headed to the living room and settled on the couch. The worst part, despite everything, was the fear, guilt, or knowledge that I’d do it again after years of being undervalued, sidelined, or overlooked.Oddly, I sounded more like Coach Von, or maybe it had been my voice all along.

I had just slippedinto my after-work lounge wear when there was a knock at the door. I froze with one foot halfway in a fuzzy slipper. I wasn’t expecting company. There were a couple more knocks this time. Whoever it was wasn’t going away.I looked at my phone—no missed calls announcing anyone’s arrival. Mateo was at practice, and Mason was at school for another hour, which meant someone was selling something I didn’t want.

I headed to the door and peered through the peephole. My stomach dropped. Remi Pearson stood outside with her arms crossed over her chest and her locs pulled in a tight ponytail. I considered pretending I wasn’t home, but her eyes gazed up to the peephole like she sensed me watching. I blew out air andunlocked the door. I fixed my face to be welcoming or at least neutral.

“Remi. This is… unexpected.”

“Is it? Do you mind if I come inside?” Her voice was flat as she looked me over, scanning my messy bun and oversized sweatshirt.

Was it really a question? Because she was already stepping forward. I backed up, allowing her to pass.

“I was about to make tea. Would you like some?” I asked.

“No. I’m good.”

She walked into my home like she was casing out the place. She touched a framed photo of Mateo, Mason, and me on vacation. Then she focused on a glossy magazine image where Mateo was featured as an up-and-comer before he actually got the opportunity. Her eyes lingered on that one, and it made my chest tighten.

“How’s DeAndre?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

Remi faced me. “His vitals are stable, but he’s still unconscious.”

I gestured to the sofa. “You want to sit?”

She didn’t move. “I didn’t come for small talk.”

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