Page 32 of Isolation

“How was the game?” she asked. Her voice was measured like she was interviewing me for a position I wasn’t qualified for.

“We won by twenty. I had twenty-eight.” I shrugged out of my jacket, draping it over the back of a chair.

“I watched.” She took a deliberate sip of wine. Her eyes never left mine.

There was something in the way she said it that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was like she wasn’t just watching the game… like she was watching me.

I moved to the built-in bar, one of the perks of finally making starter money, and poured myself that bourbon.

“You should’ve told me. I would’ve gotten you courtside seats. Better than sitting at home alone.” I took a long swallow, letting the burn steady me.

“I wasn’t planning to watch, but Remi called me,” she stated.

The bourbon suddenly tasted sour on my tongue. I set the glass down more forcefully than intended. The clink against the marble counter was sharp in the quiet room.

Danica shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”

I tilted my head, studying her. “Isn’t it? You married an athlete, Dani. You knew what this life was… the competition… the politics… the cost of making it.”

“I didn’t marry someone who would deliberately hurt?—”

“I didn’t hurt anyone,” I cut her off. My voice was sharp enough to make her flinch. “DeAndre hurt himself trying to stop me from exposing him. There’s a difference.”

The silence that followed was charged with everything we were both thinking but not saying. I saw the calculations happening behind her eyes, weighing the life she’d built against the morality she’d betrayed by staying silent—by staying with me.

“Why are you telling me this? Why now?” she finally asked.

I smiled, softening my expression. “Because I don’t want secrets between us. Because I trust you. I need to know you’re with me 100 percent.” I reached for her hand, and this time, she didn’t pull away, but I could feel the tension in her fingers.

“And if I’m not?”

The question hung in the air between us, dangerous and raw. I squeezed her hand tightly enough to remind her of my presence and strength.

“Don’t act like you’re better than this. You’re still here, still wearing the diamonds I bought you, still enjoying the view from this condo, still posting those perfect family photos on Instagram,” I noted. My voice was low but clear.I brought her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss on her knuckles. “You made your choice when you decided not to answer Remi’s call.”

Danica pulled her hand from mine slowly and deliberately. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but her voice was steady when speaking. “I’m going to check on Mason.”

She turned away, heading toward our son’s bedroom. Her back was rigid with the effort of maintaining her composure. I watched her go without stopping her. She needed time to process, to come to terms with who I was, whowewere together.

I picked up my bourbon again, swirling the amber liquid in the crystal tumbler as I looked out over the neighborhood. The view was everything I imagined it would be. It was worth every sacrifice, every calculated risk.

Danica would come around. She had too much invested in this life, in our family, to walk away. And deep down, beneath all that carefully constructed morality, she understood the truth that most people didn’t want to admit. Winning had a price, and someone always had to pay it. It just so happened that this time it wasn’t me.

Three days after my confession,our condo felt like a minefield. Danica and I orbited each other with careful precision, exchanging only the necessary words, maintaining our routines like actors in a play.

“Pass the salt.”

“Mason needs his permission slip signed.”

“I’ll be late tonight.”

It was the basics of a marriage without the substance. At night, she slept on her side with her back turned to me. Her body was rigid even in unconsciousness. I didn’t push. I had learned when to advance and when to retreat on the court and off. Right now, retreat was the smart play. Let her come to terms with reality in her own time.

I was sprawled on the couch after Tuesday morning practice, icing my knee when Danica entered from her home office. She wore her “working from home” look—hair pulled back, minimal makeup, cashmere lounge set that cost more than most people’s rent. The kind of casual that took effort.

“Mason down for his nap?” I asked, muting the basketball highlights I’d barely been watching.

She nodded, settling into the armchair across from me rather than next to me on the sofa. The distance was deliberate. Everything between us was deliberate now.

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