Even saying her name makes me want to curl up again under the tree at my back.

“Look what she did for a bad man,” I continue. “She was putty for him. Look at your mom. How she chose the wrong men over and over—how she gave herself to them for all the wrong reasons.”

“Look at me?” Iris asks. “Am I another cautionary tale?”

I don’t answer, but in some ways, she is. I don’t want to hurt Iris, but before she found her husband, August, she chose badly, and that man hurt her. He trapped her. He kept her, and by the time she escaped, it was almost too late.

“We all make mistakes,” Iris finally replies when I don’t.

“Is that what you call what Mama did?” I ask, a serrated edge to my voice. “I’m here feeling this, living this because of her ‘mistake’? No, thank you.”

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

“I’ve sworn off dick.”

Iris chokes on the other end. “We’ll see how long that lasts,” she says. “What about that photographer you brought to the Christmas party?”

“Chase?” I suck my teeth. “Just a fuckboi.”

I don’t want to tell her I cried the last time Chase and I had sex. There are limits to what I can expose.

“You haven’t met anyone?” Iris asks. “Gorgeous girl like you in New York living the glamorous life. Surely there’s a guy.”

Glamorous? At this moment, my life is restricted to this closet, and in the life beyond that door, I haven’t met many guys worth my time. Definitely not many guys who’d put up with the train wreck I am right now. Except . . . maybe . . .

“There’s a guy. Maybe,” I admit reluctantly, unwilling to tell Iris it’s Kenan. She’s been encouraging me to consider him since that day in the hospital. “But I think he could be the worst option of all because he seems too good to be true. That usually means they are.”

“But you like him,” Iris says, a smile re-entering her tone.

“Yeah, I like him,” I admit. “But I won’t trust him.”

“Well, trust has to be earned. I’m living proof. August took his time getting me to trust him. Proving I could. Maybe if you give this guy some time, time to watch him, to know him, maybe he’s the real deal.”

“Maybe. He asked if we can keep it simple and get to know each other over the summer.”

“Well you can decide to give him a chance, or not, but . . .” Iris draws and exhales a breath quickly. “But either way you need to talk to someone.”

“Huh?” I sit up straighter. “I don’t need to talk to anyone.”

“So you think you’re better than me?”

“What? Course, not, Bo.”

“Well didn’t you tell me I needed to talk to someone? When I was struggling with my past, isn’t that what you told me?”

Damn, I did tell her that. Advice is so much easier to follow when you’re giving it to someone else.

“I’ll think about it.”

“And what about Mr. Too Good To Be True?” Iris asks, her voice lighter. “You gonna think about him, too?”

I grin and chastise my heart for skipping a beat at the thought of Kenan Ross. “Not if I can help it.”

6

Kenan

“You’re going soft, Glad.”

No one in the NBA could get away with that lie, but considering my sister plays in the WNBA, she can.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask adjusting my earpiece and stripping off my sweat-drenched shorts and shirt. “I’ve been up since four-thirty and worked out for the last two hours. You?”

Kenya’s sleep-rusty chuckle comes from the other end of the line, and if I know my sister, she’s laughing from the depths of her down comforter.

“Shiiiiiit,” she says. “You know I’m still in bed, but I scored thirty points last night so I should be excused.”

“I saw your highlights on ESPN.” I lean against the counter, the marble cool against my naked skin while I navigate the apps on my phone. “Not bad for a girl.”

Only I could get away with that taunt. Anyone else would be flat on his ass in seconds. My sister is one of the WNBA’s most promising athletes, and could hold her own with most of the guys I play against.

“You joke about it,” Kenya says, her voice losing some of its humor, “but my paycheck says people believe that shit.”

“I know, Ken. I wish I could do more.”

“Keep speaking out. You and the other leaders in the Player’s Association doing that is huge. People need to know it’s not just us demanding more money, but that you guys believe we deserve it, too.”

“It’ll take time,” I say, pulling up the app to turn on my ice tub. “We’ll keep moving forward, but we got a long way to go.”

“When our number-one draft pick makes fifty thousand a year and your number one makes six million,” Kenya says, with a justifiable sharpness in her voice. “Yeah, we have a long way to go. I know we don’t bring in the same revenue, but we’re not even compensated equably for what we do generate.”

I walk to the rear of my spacious, if temporary, bathroom, and consider the ice tub with familiar dread.

“Damn, this never gets easier,” I mutter, lowering myself into the icy water.

“You icing?” Kenya asks, a wince in her words.

“Yeah, we had an ice tub installed in the New York apartment since I’ll be here all summer.”

The benefits of cryotherapy—decreased fatigue, quicker muscle recovery, less anxiety, improved performance and a dozen others—far outweigh how much it sucks to submerge your body in arctic water.

“What are you eating?” Kenya asks. “I know you didn’t drag that chef with you to the East Coast.”

“He refused to leave Cali,” I say with a laugh, breathing easier as my body adjusts to the cold. “But he did recommend someone out here who delivers my meals to keep me on point this summer. I can’t show up at training camp with a gut.”

“A gut.” Kenya’s hearty laugh makes me laugh, too. “You never had a gut a day in your life.”

“And I don’t plan to.”

“Man, with the way you live, you could play till you’re fifty.”

“God, please, no.”

“You’re not ready to throw in the towel yet, are you?” Surprise colors her voice because with my conditioning, most expect me to play for another four years or so. I’m not so sure.

“It’s not my body that’s tired. Maybe it’s my mind. I don’t know, Ken. I been at this for a long time. I want to do some other things, including spend more time with Simone.”

“How is my niece? Still spoiled rotten?”

“She’s not spoiled.”

Kenya lets her silence speak for her.

“Okay,” I concede with a chuckle. “She may be a little spoiled, but she’s a good kid.”

“Still no interest in ball?” There’s despair in Kenya’s tone. Even in college I still thought I would be a lawyer one day, but my sister has always known she would be a baller. She has high hopes for Simone, too.

“She’s sticking with ballet.”

“Hey, ballerinas are athletes, too,” Kenya says. “I’ll take it.”

I sink lower into the icy water, letting it reach all the places that will ache from my strenuous workout if I don’t. “Her new school has a great program, and she seems committed.”

“And how is her mother?” Kenya asks with careful coolness.

“She’s . . .” I sigh, thinking of the scene with the camera crew at our family counseling session. “She’s Bridget.”

“And that tells me all I need to know.”

“Yeah, pretty much. I’m fighting to keep Simone clear of this reality show. I don’t want her enamored with fame, or what she thinks it is. It’s not just getting a bunch of Instagram followers. It’s having the worst day of your life broadcast for the whole world to see.”

“I think she gets that,” Kenya says reassuringly. “She saw what you guys went through.”

“That’s the problem, Ken. She saw it all. She knows how dark this can get. That is her life at this age. I hate that our foolishness has even touched her.”

“You mean Bridget’s foolishness,” Kenya returns harshly. “I still wish you’d let me key her car.”

“Well since I paid for the car and the repairs would come out of the alimony I give her each month,” I reply wryly, “feels like a no-win.”

“She still trying to get back in your pants?” Kenya teases.

“She should know by now that won’t ever happen, but she keeps pushing it, yeah. Unfortunately, Simone has it in her head that we might reconcile.”

“No way,” Kenya says, sounding as disbelieving as I am. “Even knowing her mom cheated?”

“Her therapist says it’s a natural response for a kid, even in circumstances where there is known infidelity. Simone sees our marriage, our relationship through a self-centered lens at this stage of her life. Not what makes sense or what’s best for us, but what seems best for her. And she believes that’s for us to be together.”

“As long as you don’t actually go soft and give Bridget another chance.”

“The fuck?” My scowl and gritting teeth have nothing to do with the icy water I’m submerged in. “You know better.”

“Long as you’re sure, because I’d never trust that bitch again.”

“I’m sure,” I say firmly.

“Yeah, but sometimes men think with their dicks. Most times, actually.”

“I’m not attracted to Bridget even a little bit anymore.” I take a long draw from a nearby water bottle. “I saw the ugliness under all the blonde and boobs.”