It’s my first surgery.
I’ve been balling most of my life and this isn’t my first injury, but it was my first time under the knife. The pain is being managed with medication, but I don’t want to become too dependent. I take less than I should, and my leg hurts like hell. It’s been three days, and I’m finally home. At my real home here in Maryland, not the empty condo in San Diego. If I have to rehab the entire off-season, I want to do it surrounded by the people I love and in the place that’s most familiar to me.
We’re at least six weeks away from physical therapy. This first chapter is all about keeping weight off the leg, letting time and titanium do the healing. That means being more sedentary than I have been since I could only crawl. It’s driving me crazy and leaving me too much time to think. Too much time to dream.
I dreamt of Iris last night. We were by the water, surrounded by trees, and the sun was high. The sky was an explosion of color, vivid, vibrant just before sunset.
We were happy.
How can I dream about Iris when, in a roundabout way, she’s the reason I’m here? I’m flat on my back, staring at the same spackled ceiling I fell asleep under when I was ten years old. And just like then, my mom stands at the door, ready to take care of me.
“You hungry?” she asks, walking in to fluff the pillows behind my head. “I can make those crab cakes you like so much.”
“Nah.” I shift my left leg on the bed and the right one on the small platform that elevates and stabilizes it.
“You need to eat,” Jared says from the door. He was an athlete in high school and still carries traces of a baller’s swagger, though it’s usually hidden beneath a suit these days.
“Okay,” I say, more to get my mother out of the room so I can talk to Jared than because I’m hungry. “Your famous crab cakes would be great, Mom.”
Her face lights up. She’s felt helpless over the last few days, like she wasn’t doing enough. Laid up and barely able to leave this damn bed for the next few weeks, I feel helpless, too. I wish making me feel useful again was as easy.
I study the walls, still plastered with childhood heroes, the idols who shaped my game: Jordan, Magic, Kareem, Kobe. I’ve been staving off depression ever since I hit the floor, and the thought of Kobe Bryant and the Lakers makes me think of the first night I met Iris.
“What’s the league saying about Caleb?” I ask Jared, balling my fists on the bed to contain my anger. “They rule it dirty?”
Jared grimaces, pulls a chair beside my bed, and flips it around to straddle. He rests his crossed arms on the back. “Everybody knows it was a dirty play,” Jared says. “But his dad is a Hall of Famer, part-owner of a team, and a front office executive. That’s a lot of power and influence. It’ll always be hard to make shit stick to Caleb even in a shit storm.”
“Are you kidding me?” I point to my leg. “I’m missing the end of this season and part of the next because of what he did. I knew he wasn’t the saint everyone thinks he is, but even I didn’t know how low he’d go.”
“What’s up with you and Caleb anyway?” Jared tips his head, his look probing. “I mean, I knew you were never fans of each other throughout college, but it seems to have gotten worse since you guys turned pro.”
Jared is one of the best agents in sports. If we hadn’t needed to keep our family connection on the low, there’s no way I would have chosen Lloyd as my agent over him. Part of what makes Jared so good is his BS detector. He sees through bullshit excuses and lies from a mile away, but there’s no way I’m telling him I jeopardized my career over a girl, much less one I barely know.
“Same old shit, I guess. Just higher stakes.” I shrug. “We’ve been going at it for years. You know that.”
“You sure that’s all there is to it?” Jared asks. “He doesn’t live far away from here. You rehabbing at home doesn’t have anything to do with him, does it?”
Maybe subconsciously I did stay here with the hope of running into Iris, but I won’t make it happen. If our paths are supposed to cross again, they will. I have other things I want to accomplish while I’m sidelined.
“We need to talk about Elevation.” I’m hoping the abrupt change of subject will pull my stepbrother away from talk of Caleb. Thinking of her with him makes my head hurt worse than my leg does.
“Exactly what do we need to discuss?” Jared asks. “We’re in year one of our five-year plan. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I don’t want to wait five years.” I plow my fingers through the tangled hair that’s longer than I typically wear it. “I have the capital. You have the expertise. Let’s get it off the ground.”
“We planned to wait until you had a few seasons under your belt.” Jared rubs the five o’clock shadow covering his jaw. “A little more credibility and time to focus.”
I gesture to my busted leg. “I don’t anticipate having more time than I do right now, and you have enough credibility for both of us,” I say. “You’re a great agent with a stellar reputation. And you understand sports marketing. You can start signing clients now. I think having my name associated with the company at this stage decreases credibility. We want these athletes to take Elevation seriously. Some rookie ball player anywhere near the helm wouldn’t reassure me. I’ll be a silent partner for now.”
“You may have a point,” Jared admits. “If you’re rehabbing here for the summer, where do I set up the office?”
“As far as I know, I’m still in San Diego, right?”
“Yeah, sure.” Jared’s face closes off, his agent’s mask falling into place.
“Bruh, what aren’t you telling me?” I ask.
“They’re already talking about using a disabled player exception,” Jared says. “They’re eyeing mid-level free agents who can take your place until your rehab is done. Especially if it ends up being more like a year than eight months.”
I drop my head into my hands. It’s pretty standard to find a temporary replacement when a high-dollar contract player like me is injured, but I’m barely out of surgery and they’re already doubting my comeback? Already working on a contingency?
I get it. That fall, this injury, reminded me of my own mortality. It shattered the illusion of invincibility that soaring through the air gives you. We may soar, but we land. Not always on our feet, and sometimes so awkwardly that our bones break.
“Well it sounds like I got something to prove,” I finally say, flashing Jared a determined smile. “Dr. Clive projected at least eight months before I’m game-ready, right?”
“Yeah, at least eight months.”
I nod decisively, smiling at the man who’s been a brother to me, blood notwithstanding. “Then I’ll do it in seven.”
