Page 33 of Isolation

“Coach happy with practice?” she asked, picking up her tablet, pretending to check emails.

“Yeah. Team’s clicking.” I adjusted the ice pack, wincing slightly. “We’re finding our rhythm without DeAndre.”

She didn’t take the bait, didn’t engage with the mention of his name. Instead, she just nodded again with her eyes on her screen. The silence stretched between us, elastic and uncomfortable.

The sports network transitioned from highlights to breaking news. The volume was too low to hear correctly. I reached for the remote to turn it up when Danica suddenly said, “Wait.”

I followed her gaze to the screen, where the network logo had given way to a hospital room, and sitting up in bed, looking pale but composed, was DeAndre Pearson.

“Turn it up,” Danica commented, setting her tablet aside. All pretense of disinterest was gone.

I hit the volume button, and a strange tension coiled in my gut as the reporter’s voice filled our living room.

“…his first public statement since the accident that sidelined him over two months ago and potentially threatened the future of his career.”

The camera tightened on DeAndre’s face. He’d lost weight, and the angles of his cheekbones were more pronounced. The hospital gown did nothing for his usually impeccable image, but he still managed to look dignified and polished—the perfect victim.

“DeAndre, there’s been a lot of speculation about exactly what happened during that practice session,” the reporter mentioned off-camera. “Can you walk us through it?”

DeAndre shifted slightly. His expression was carefully neutral. “I remember most things—just a little hazy on the moment it happened. But that’s basketball. Injuries happen. I’m focused on recovery, and I’m grateful for the support. I want to ask for privacy as I get back on my feet.”

Something cold slid down my spine. This wasn’t the response I expected. Where was the accusation? The blame? The reporter pressed on, asking the question I was thinking.

“There have been rumors that this wasn’t just a typical practice injury. They speculate that there might have been some... interaction with another player that led to the fall.”

The camera caught a flash of something in DeAndre’s eyes. Anger? Fear? It was gone before I could place it.

“Like I said, it’s hazy. Basketball is a physical game. Things get competitive in practice. That’s how we push each other to be better.”

“And what about Mateo Bryant stepping into your starting role? The team is on a winning streak with him leading the offense,” the reporter continued.

DeAndre’s smile tightened just a fraction. “Mateo has always been talented. The team needed someone to step up, and he did. That’s what professionals do.”

I remained perfectly still as I watched. I was aware of Danica’s eyes on me rather than the screen. I felt my jaw clenching and my muscles working beneath the skin as I tried to maintain my poker face. What the fuck was DeAndre playing at?

“Any timeline on your return?” the reporter asked.

“Doctors say six to eight months is best case. We’ll see. I’m taking it one day at a time, focusing on what I can control.” DeAndre squared his shoulders slightly.

The interview wrapped up with platitudes about teamwork and perseverance. As the network cut to a commercial, I hit mute again, and the sudden silence was heavy between us.

“He didn’t say your name yet,” Danica said flatly. Her gaze was still fixed on me, studying my reaction.

I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Nothing to say. Like he said, injuries happen.”

I removed the ice pack, setting it aside as I leaned forward. “DeAndre and I understand each other. This is a business. He knows that better than most.”

Danica stood abruptly with her tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. “I need to finish some work before Mason wakes up.”

As she walked away, I wondered if she believed me. It didn’t matter whether she did or not. The result was the same either way. I was starting, we were winning, and DeAndre was sidelined indefinitely. The rest was just... details.

The next few days unfolded with a strange new rhythm. On the court, I was untouchable, averaging twenty-five points a game, diming up my teammates, playing the kind of defense that made highlight reels. At home, the frost between Danica and me began to thaw slightly. She sat next to me at dinner and laughedat something I said while we gave Mason his bath—small things but significant.

What was more noticeable was what wasn’t happening. Remi wasn’t courtside anymore. Her social media, usually full of support for her brother and the team, had gone quiet. And according to Danica, the calls and texts stopped completely.

“It’s strange. It’s like she just... gave up,” Danica commented one night as we were getting ready for bed. This was the first time she’d voluntarily brought up anything related to the situation in a while.

I pulled my t-shirt over my head, watching Danica’s reflection in the bathroom mirror as she removed her makeup.

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