Page 31 of Isolation

“Bryant is showing us a different energy this half,” one of the commentators commented. His voice boomed through thearena. I couldn’t see them but pictured them in the booth suddenly paying attention to the dude they’d ignored for two seasons.

“That’s what makes him so dangerous,” his partner replied. “He’s been this team’s silent weapon waiting in the wings. Now, we’re seeing what the coaching staff has known all along.”

They didn’t know shit. Nobody did. How many times did I sit in Coach’s office, asking what more I needed to do? How many extra shooting sessions? How much film study? How many defensive drills before I got my shot? I always got the same answer, “DeAndre’s our guy right now. Your time will come.” Until it did. Funny how opportunities worked. I stole a glance at Remi again as I set up the offense. Her face was a mask, but her eyes followed me like a hunter tracking prey.

“Bryant looking confident with the ball, averaging twenty-two points since moving into the starting lineup several weeks ago,” the announcer continued as I orchestrated the offense.

The defender sagged off me, daring me to shoot. I obliged him, pulling up from deep. The ball arced through the air—perfect rotation, perfect trajectory.Swish. The crowd erupted again, and I allowed myself a small celebration of three fingers to the temple as I backpedaled on defense.

“That’s his fourth three of the night! Bryant is absolutely cooking!”

The next defensive possession I was locked in, reading eyes, anticipating passes. When their point guard telegraphed a lazy pass to the wing, I pounced. Intercepting the ball mid-air, I was already turning downcourt before my feet hit the ground again with nothing but an open floor ahead of me.

This was the moment. The arena held its collective breath as I raced toward the basket. In my peripheral vision, I caught Remi leaning forward in her seat. I could go for the simple layup, the safe play, but that wasn’t why I was here.

I took off from just inside the free-throw line, cradling the ball in my right hand. The rim seemed to rise up to meet me as I soared through the air. For a split second, I was suspended, defying gravity, silhouetted against the backdrop of thousands of fans. Then I brought the hammer down, a thunderous dunk that sent vibrations through the entire arena. The place went nuclear. My teammates rushed over, pounding my chest, messing with my head. Even Coach was on his feet, trying and failing to hide his smile. The Jumbotron replayed the dunk from three different angles. Each drew a fresh roar from the crowd.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your exclamation point on this game! Mateo Bryant putting the final nail in the coffin!”

I stole another glance at Remi. For the first time all night, there was something other than suspicion in her eyes. Respect? It was hard to tell.

The final buzzer sounded. We secured a twenty-point win. My stat line included twenty-eight points, six assists, and four steals—numbers DeAndre would be proud of. The thought made me smile wider as we lined up to shake hands with the other team.

“Good game,” they mumbled, some of them not even making eye contact. That was how you knew you broke them when they couldn’t even look at you afterward.

In the locker room, it was all jokes and music. The team had been struggling for years, always just on the bubble of making the playoffs. Now, we’d won seven of our last eight, and suddenly, there was talk of postseason runs and of shocking the league.

“Yo, M, what got into you tonight? You were hoopin’ like they stole something from you,” Tray joked, snapping a towel at me as I undressed.

I shrugged, keeping it casual. “Just playing my game, man. Feels good to finally show what I can do.”

“Well, keep doing that shit. I could get used to winning.” He laughed.

Coach came through, giving his standard post-game speech about staying focused, one game at a time, and all that cliché shit coaches love, but his eyes lingered on me a beat longer than usual. There was something there—pride or knowledge maybe. We both knew this team wasn’t winning when DeAndre was running the show. We both knew I had changed the equation because coaches who didn’t produce wins were also placed on the chopping block.

After media obligations and a quick shower, I was heading out through the player tunnel when I spotted her again. Remi was leaning against the wall with her phone in hand, pretending to scroll but obviously waiting for me. I could take another exit or have security escort me out a different way, but that would look weak. Instead, I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and walked straight toward her with my game face on.

I nodded as I approached. “Remi, didn’t expect to see you at the game tonight.”

She looked up from her phone. Those eyes locked onto mine like targeting systems. “I bet you didn’t.”

“How’s your brother doing? The team’s not the same without him,” I commented.

“Is that what you tell yourself? That the team misses him while you take his spot?” She stepped closer. Her voice was low but sharp as a blade.

I kept my expression neutral, aware of the other players and staff moving around us.

“I’m here to congratulate you.” She arched an eyebrow.

“Thank you. I’ve gotta get home to Danica and my son,” I said, sidestepping the accusation. “Give DeAndre my best. Tell him we can’t wait to have him back.”

As I walked away, I felt her eyes burning into my back. Let her look.

The high fromthe game still buzzed through my veins when I unlocked our condo door. Victory tasted sweet like the expensive bourbon I planned to pour myself once I was inside. But the moment I stepped through the threshold, I felt thickness in the air, the kind that settled when something was off. Danica was sitting in our living room perched on the edge of the custom leather sofa we picked out together last year back when I was still riding the bench, and we were playing happy family. One hand cradled a glass of cabernet, and the other rested in her lap. She was too still… too controlled. Something was definitely off.

I dropped my gym bag by the door and plastered on a smile. “Hey. You didn’t tell me you were waiting up.”

She looked at me, those deep brown eyes gave nothing away. Danica had always been good at that—the perfect poker face. It was what made her so damn good at PR before she gave it all up to support my career, before she became Mrs. Mateo Bryant, basketball wife.

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