Page 37 of Isolation

When he’d settled in the living room, I cleaned up quickly, operating on autopilot as my mind raced ahead to the day’s carefully orchestrated schedule—interview at noon, photoshoot at 2:00 p.m., team dinner at 3:30 p.m. Every minute was accounted for. Each appearance was planned down to our coordinated outfits.

I retreated to my bathroom. The lighting was perfect. Recessed fixtures that eliminated shadows made creating the flawless appearance expected of an up-and-coming basketball star’s wife easier. I settled at the vanity, surveying the arsenal of products arranged with military precision. Foundation, concealer, contour, highlight—my weapons of mass construction.

With steady hands, I began the transformation. First, primer created a smooth canvas. I followed with foundation and all the tricks of the trade to give the illusion of perfection. I’d gotten too good at this. Next, I stepped into the designer dress I chose for today’s events. It was navy blue with subtle gold accents—team colors, of course. I was the supportive wife making a statement without saying a word. My reflection showed a woman in complete control without a hair out of place or a doubt visibleAfter dressing, I heard the doorbell. I exited my room, closed the bedroom door behind me, and stepped back into our carefully curated life.

Mateo had just moved to answer the door. It was probably the babysitter. He looked over at me from where he stood next to Mason. His smile was genuine in a way that made my heart flutter.

“Damn, baby. You look amazing.”

“Language but thank you,” I reminded him gently, nodding toward Mason before smiling back.

He answered the door with the confidence of a man who believed he deserved everything coming to him. After greeting the babysitter and giving her today’s instructions, I took Mateo’s arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath expensive fabric. He was the man I married, the man I wasn’t sure I knew anymore, the father of my child, and the center of a mystery I’d buried.

“Let’s give them something to talk about,” I said, leading us toward the door, toward the cameras, and toward the performance that had become our life.

The mask was firmly in place, and for now, that was enough.

I steppedthrough the entrance of the Shott Center, straightening the cuffs on my custom Tom Ford suit. It was midnight blue because black was what everybody expected. I clocked the exact moment the room recognized who’d just walked in. This wave moved through a crowd, heads turning like dominoes, whispers spread faster than a fast break, and suddenly, I wasn’t just Mateo Bryant, I wastheMateo Bryant, the dude who dropped forty-two points last week, the comeback they didn’t see coming. I adjusted my tie, more out of habit than necessity, and flashed the smile my agent said, “sells sneakers.” Tonight, it was selling me.

Everyone who mattered in Columbus basketball was here—executives in tuxes worth more than what my mama made ina year, players decked out in jewelry that would blind you if you stared too long, and me finally standing exactly where I belonged.

“Mateo! Over here!”

A reporter waved frantically from behind a velvet rope. I gave him the nod that was not too eager but just enough acknowledgment to show I was approachable. That was the game off the court—balance. Acted too thirsty, and they smelled desperation. Too aloof, and you were ungrateful, difficult. I learned that by watching from the sidelines all those years.

“How does it feel to be up for Most Improved Player after everything you’d been through?”

I leaned in, making sure the Nike logo on my cufflinks caught the light. “Man, it’s a blessing. Shows what happens when you stay ready so you don’t have to get ready, you know what I’m saying?”

“Did you ever doubt you’d return to this level after your injury?”

“Doubt? Nah. Setbacks are just setups for comebacks. I knew my time was coming.” I laughed. I practiced the sound to hit just the right note of humble confidence.

Lie.Those two years were nothing but doubt, nights I’d woken up in cold sweats thinking my career was dead before it started, and watching DeAndre Pearson taking my minutes, my spotlight, my future all while I smiled and clapped from the bench like a good teammate. But the cameras didn’t need to know that part. More flashes and more microphones were pushed in my face. I navigated them with the same control I used weaving through defenders—precise, measured, always one step ahead.

“Mateo! What’s your response to Coach Von saying your success was the season’s biggest surprise?”

I chuckled, letting the slight dig roll off. “Coach keeps it real. It was a surprise to everybody but me. Sometimes, you gotta bet on yourself when nobody else will.”

A hand clapped my shoulder, and I turned to see Tray Jackson, our veteran point guard, grinning widely.

“This man is putting up numbers like he’s playing against high schoolers!” he announced to the reporters who ate it up.

I dapped him up, grateful for the assist off-court.The camaraderie played well for the cameras, and for a moment, it almost felt genuine.Almost.But I’d learned the hard way that this league wasn’t about friendship. It was about who was useful to whom, and right now, being associated with the hot hand benefited everyone. The moment I cooled off, these same dudes would walk past me like I was invisible. I had seen it happen too many times.

“Mateo, your wife looks stunning tonight. How important has Danica’s support been for your comeback?”

I scanned the room until I spotted her across the floor, working the crowd with that effortless grace. The blue dress hugged her curves. She wore her hair swept up to show off the diamond earrings I bought after signing my new endorsement deal last week. Even from here, I could tell she was the baddest woman in the room.

“Man, Dani is my MVP. She believed when nobody else did, held me down during rehab years ago, and supported every decision I made. I’m lucky to have Danica by my side,” I replied, not breaking eye contact, even though she hadn’t noticed me yet.

The line landed perfectly. The female reporter put her hand to her chest like I just recited poetry instead of the same shit every player said about their woman. But unlike most, I meant it. Danica knew me—the real me, not this version I was selling tonight. She’d seen me at my lowest, cursing God and the universe when my knee gave out in what was supposedto be my breakout game. She never blinked; she just got to work researching the best surgeons and physical therapists. She pushed me when I wanted to quit.

And she quit asking questions about DeAndre, even when the “freak accident” had put him in a walking boot for the rest of the season. She just poured me a drink and said, “Your moment’s here. Don’t waste it.” That was love… loyalty.

Another camera flashed. Another microphone pointed in my face. A sponsor rep from Nike slid in with his white teeth and hungry eyes.

“Mateo, we’re considering a limited-edition colorway for the new Air Zoom. ‘The Comeback’ as the theme. What do you think?”

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