Page 3 of The Girlfriend Game
One
Zeke
I impatiently flip through the pages of a worn-out coffee table magazine. It’s aMen’s Healthissue from two months ago, featuring a cover photo of my former teammate, Brady Collins, promoting his new protein powder and supplement line, as well as his new lease on life post-basketball career.
I scoff irritably, sneering at the man smiling back at me like his shit don’t stink. I toss the wrinkled copy back on the stack. That douchey son-of-a-bitch was once the biggest cheater and dirty player in the league. It wasn’t until he got caught using steroids and drugs, and his wife kicked his cheating ass out of their house, that he finally checked into rehab and sought help.
Now he’s the poster boy for clean and sober living, hawking his line of healthy supplements.
Well, excuse me for not giving a shit.
But it seems I’ve now taken his spot on the NBA’s latest fuck-up roster.
I lean back in the lobby chair to rest my head, staring forward at the wall covered in artwork. My lids grow heavy and close on their own accord, the warmth of the office lulling me to sleep. After the bender I went on this past week, I’m due for a nice long nap. My body doesn’t quite recover like it once did back in my twenties.
Now it feels like I’m covered in cement and I’m trudging through the muck.
In fact, if anyone asked me what I did this past weekend, I’d have to make up a story because it’s all a blank after the game we played at home against Houston. Surprisingly, I scored a triple double even with the killer hangover.
For me, it’s the only thing keeping me going most days and fuels my will to live. Outside of basketball, my life is meaningless, and I’m doing a great job of wasting it.
Like this weekend, when I’d gone out clubbing with some of the guys from the team. I’d had a pretty bad episode before the game—sweating profusely, trouble breathing, the shakes—all the things the psychiatrist indicated were symptoms of an anxiety attack. But instead of taking those meds they prescribed which make me feel foggy, I decided to drown it after the game with booze and my own combination of recreational drugs.
At some point, I ended up blacking out again and when I came to, I couldn’t remember what happened. But the world knew what transpired because, when I woke up the next morning, my bender was splashed all over the headlines.
Bad Boy NBA Player, Zeke Forester, Arrested
I was arrested for public intoxication after getting in a fight with a guy at the club who, according to my teammates, had gotten in my face and taunted me to the point where I lost control and knocked him to the ground with a left hook. Under normal circumstances, when I’m not drunk, I can handle those situations. But this time, fueled by post-game adrenaline, my irritable mood, and the substances in my system, I went off the rails.
I rub at my temple to ward off the headache that’s been brewing all day, regardless of the painkillers and copious amounts of coffee I drank earlier. And the whiskey chasers I had on top of that.
The incessant ache never goes away no matter what I do to get rid of it.
I’ve pushed my body to my physical limits, exceeded what one man can endure physically, but nothing has helped to ease the constant suffocating weight crushing me day in and day out. And the quack-nonsense those doctors tried to shove down my throat about it being a mental health problem was quickly ignored. I wasn’t crazy or looney. I could handle this on my own without their damn meds and psychological bullshit.
Unfortunately, while I did a good job ignoring my problems, Marek Talbert, the Pilots’ GM, was done with me. He’d called me into his office that day after my arrest and subsequent release on my own recognizance and gave me the third degree. He’d had enough and sat me down to deliver an ultimatum. He saw through my antics. He said he wasn’t going to stand by and watch me destroy my career and myself in the process.
“I can’t turn a blind eye and watch you continue to slowly kill yourself, Zeke.”
Honestly, I’d been expecting to be fired and thrown out on the streets. But instead, Marek gave me one last chance.
“You’re too good and have come too far to crumble under the weight of your personal demons like this.”
I snickered at the word demons because he was being overdramatic. And I told him so.
“I’m fine, Marek. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re overreacting. It was just a small incident.” I waved my hand in the air like it was nothing.
He crossed his arms, face composed, but I got a glimmer of a sad look in his eyes. Like a disappointed parent.
“I guess I’m wrong, then. I thought you’d hit your rock bottom. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to wait for that to happen and I’m giving you a choice. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
I’ve got to hand it to the guy. I was fucking pissed as hell and threw a hurricane-sized tantrum over the stipulations he decreed. He calmly laid out the plan. If I didn’t seek treatment, I was done. There’d be no more basketball. No more games. No more playoffs. Nothing left for me to do.
He hit me where he knew it would hurt.
Basketball is my life. It’s the only thing I’m good at. The only reason I’m still here.
I don’t blame Marek for giving me that ultimatum. I know he cares deeply for his team and players. They always come first for him, even before the money, the game, or the fans. Marek is nothing like our previous GM, who would’ve turned a blind eye to my behavior as long as I was putting up the boards and scoring on the court.
