On The Rebound

by Alexandra Warren

  No one thought she deserved the position, especially not in her twenties. And sure, there might’ve been some nepotism involved with her hiring. But Katianna knew how to do the job and did it well, playing a huge part in how the team had managed to pull off a championship in only their fourth year under the Lloyd family’s ownership.

  It was also why she’d found such early success as the owner of the Nashville Nymphs a mere seven years later, pulling off the unthinkable with their team winning the championship in only their second season.

  Still, that didn’t mean her various roles in the sports industry didn’t come with an inordinate amount of pressure and backlash. And because of that, she was forced to harden herself for most people; that group of “most” thankfully excluding me since Kat was easily the most dependable person I knew.

  Like now, when she could’ve easily decided not to answer the phone in the middle of the night, she’d instead come up with an entire plan for my mostly unscathed escape and transfer to her condo where she was already waiting for me with a bottle of expensive wine.

  “I would’ve poured you a glass. But I didn’t wanna waste one if you needed the whole bottle.”

  As good as that all sounded, I only had the energy to plop down on her couch and whine, “I feel way too sick to even think about drinking right now.”

  “Sick?” she repeated. “Ooh, girl. Please tell me you aren’t pregnant. I’ve dealt with enough of those kinds of surprises for the year.”

  Since I didn’t even know she was seeing anybody, my eyes were wide when I asked, “You have something you need to tell me?”

  “Girl, no,” she immediately answered, joining me on the couch to share, “I’m talking about Dre and Selena’s ass.”

  “Selena’s pregnant?!” I asked, temporarily lost in the excitement of the news as I squealed, “Oh my God! That was quick. I mean, the season just ended.”

  “Oh, she’s been pregnant for a while now,” Katianna explained with a nonchalant wave of her hand, my eyes squinting as I struggled to form a timeline.

  “But the… so she… wow. That’s incredible,” I concluded, suddenly hit with the memory of Selena rushing off the set during one of our postgame interviews last season.

  Considering the intensity of the moment, it wasn’t fair for me to assume her nausea was caused by a pregnancy. But now it all made sense, a bit of a grin hitting my lips as I thought about all the good that had been coming Dre’s way as of late.

  He deserved it.

  They deserved it.

  But unfortunately, their good news was only a short-lived escape from my reality that had Katianna asking, “So… your uterus.”

  Shaking my head, I confirmed, “I’m not pregnant, Kat. Just… discombobulated. I mean, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say, or what I’m supposed to do, or hell, if I’m in any sort of trouble.”

  With a giggle, Kat insisted, “You can’t be in trouble for something you didn’t do, Bleu.”

  “Uhh, when it comes to black people, the criminal justice system says otherwise,” I countered, her eyebrows shooting up before she gave a nod to agree.

  “Okay, true. However, that won’t be the case in this situation. You just have to like, lay low for a little bit.”

  Releasing a heavy sigh, I slipped deeper against the couch and replied, “Considering all the calls, texts, and emails I’ve ignored from my job since the news broke, I’m assuming I won’t have much of a choice.”

  Suddenly, it felt like I needed more than just that bottle of wine Katianna had offered me earlier as she responded, “All the covering up they do for folks at that place, they better not even think about getting rid of you over this little hiccup. And if they do, we’ll sue their asses so far into the ground, the network will be named after you by the time we’re finished.”

  Considering all the money, power, and connections her family had, I knew she wasn’t lying about being able to sue someone into the ground. But the thought of having to do all of that over something I wasn’t even involved in only stressed me out even more, the frustration causing tears to well up in my eyes when I replied, “I don’t wanna have to sue anybody. I just wanna keep my job and act like this shit never even happened.”

  “And what about Todd?”

  “What about him?” I asked with a scowl, offended by the mere sound of his name as I told Kat, “When it comes to the network, this is his mess to fix. Not mine.”

  Shaking her head, Kat clarified, “I’m not talking about the network, Bleu. I’m talking about the two of you, as a couple.”

  Oh.

  Right.

  The personal aspect of this that I’d intentionally pushed to the back burner in an effort to preserve what was left of my sanity.

  Now that I’d been able to talk through things a little with Kat, I could see how mostly everything else about this situation could be handled with some pretty simple logistics.

  Stay off T.V. for a few days while the network sorted everything out.

  Stay off social media for a few days while the internet set their sights on the next trending topic.

  Stay away from people for a few days so I wouldn’t have to talk about any of this shit.

  But when it came down to me and Todd’s relationship, I was all emotion.

  I was mad at him for doing something so stupid that could potentially affect our livelihoods while also being worried about his condition since there hadn’t been any real updates. I was confused, questioning my own judgment and dissecting every potential red flag I might’ve ignored while also trying not to blame myself for his actions. And even though I didn’t have all the details yet, I somehow already felt betrayed, my gut instinct telling me the “unidentified woman” wasn’t just some random female relative he’d drunkenly taken for a joy ride.

  It seemed as if Katianna knew that too.

  At least, I could assume that was why she’d posed the question about him and the status of our relationship. And while I truly didn’t want to rush to judgment, the fact that we hadn’t even been an official couple for all that long and he’d already managed to embarrass me in a public fashion told me it was best to cut ties now instead of looking like an even bigger fool later.

  Four

  I couldn’t sleep.

  After playing like shit in the first game of the preseason, I assumed it was just a result of being heavily distracted and made a promise to myself to never let it happen again. But when game two went down that same garbage ass path without any major outside influences, I started to question myself, worried that I was getting ready to hit some sort of sophomore slump that would not only fuck up our chances of winning a championship, but also fuck up my chances of becoming an All-Star.

  That was my goal for this season.

  While overall team success wasn’t something that was completely in my control, I could control what I did on the court to contribute. And with the way shit had played out in the first two games, it was clear I had a lot of work to do if I really expected to make that happen.

  Laying in bed probably wasn’t helping my cause.

  Not that I was on any of that “sleep when you’re dead” shit. I knew rest was an important part of what made everything else go. But thinking about the work instead of actually putting the work in made me feel like I was going about this all wrong, leading me to hit the arena’s gym before the sun was even up to do some extra training that I hoped would translate directly to tonight’s game.

  Because of the hour, I didn’t really expect anyone other than security to be in the arena - let alone the workout room - so the sound of music playing as I approached caught me a bit off-guard. And even still, I assumed it’d be one of my teammates showing up early on the same shit that I was, or maybe a coach who wanted his gameday suit to fit a little better; not Bleu Taylor busting her ass on the treadmill like she was training for the Olympics.

  With how fast she was running, I was honestly scared to approach her since one missed st
ep was sure to send her ass flying across the room. So instead, I was patient as she finished her sprint interval, admiring her stride, impressed by her stamina, and maybe a little too into how good her body looked covered in sweat.

  I mean, damn.

  How was I ever supposed to resist her if she looked this fuckin’ good all the time?

  How was it even possible for me to not think about peeling her sexy ass out of the matching sports bra and biker shorts set she had on and fuckin’ every memory of that lame ass retired nigga out of her mind?

  And how I was supposed to...

  “Oh God,” Bleu gasped once she noticed me standing nearby, making me feel bad for getting so distracted that I’d forgotten to announce myself as she panickedly hopped off the treadmill and rattled, “Kat told me no one is usually here this early on game days. I’m sorry. Let me just get my things, and I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Bleu, chill. You don’t have to leave,” I insisted, watching as she frantically put the t-shirt she must’ve started her run with back on. But once she started fixing her ponytail that got knocked out in the process, I noticed how red and puffy her eyes were, the sight making me concerned enough to ask, “Hey. You alright?”

  “I’m fine,” was her immediate answer. But the somber look on her face said otherwise, especially once she bit into her lip and looked away from me like she was actively fighting back tears.

  That shit made me mad.

  Not at her of course since, according to everything that had been on the internet over the last few days, none of this was really her fault. But seeing her so down about it had me hot, ready to slap that nigga on sight for being so… dumb.

  Driving drunk when you got more than enough money to afford a driver.

  Having a side chick in the whip when you, figuratively speaking, got Bleu’s perfect ass at home.

  Fucking up your bag just to flex for a nobody in the moment.

  All that shit was rookie as hell, something I knew a little too much about since I was only a few months - weeks - removed from my immature days. But now, I knew better which meant he definitely should’ve known better, the whole thing only making me feel worse for Bleu when I told her, “I’m sorry about what happened. I was gonna hit you up to see if you were good, but I ain’t want your man to be trippin’.”

  I was really trying to be empathetic, but it wasn’t received that way at all, a scowl on Bleu’s face as she groaned, “Fucks up my life and still gets his feelings treated as a priority. Wow. Must be nice.”

  “The one time I try to respect her little relationship and that shit backfires,” I thought, shaking my head as I sighed, “Bleu, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  She was already busy grabbing the rest of her things to stuff in a duffel bag as she insisted, “Kage, we don’t have to do this. It is too early in the morning, and I really don’t need your sympathy.”

  Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Either way, I wanted to make myself clear when I caught up to her and stated, “Well for the record, it’s fuck that nigga forever ‘round here.”

  That was enough to make her grin just slightly, her positive response giving me a little room to ask, “Now are you gonna come back and finish your run, or you just gonna quit?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The clock said you weren’t done,” I told her, pointing to the timer on the machine that said she still had seven minutes left. “And I don’t know about you, Bleu. But I like to finish everything I start.”

  It was a challenge and an excuse to get her to stick around for a little bit longer all wrapped in one; though I could tell it was for purely competitive reasons when she agreed, “You know what? You’re right.”

  With that, she dropped her duffel and got back on the treadmill as I took the one next to her, getting ready to do a little warm-up jog until she inquired, “So… we both know what’s got me crying on the treadmill at the crack of dawn. But what’s got you playing like shit?”

  Her directness made me chuckle. “Damn. Comin’ straight like that, huh?”

  “Respectfully,” she added with another little smirk as she cranked up the speed of her machine.

  Because I wasn’t no bitch, I matched her pace. But I wished I would’ve eased into it a little more once I found myself struggling to breathe when I responded, “Honestly, I don’t know. I mean, game one I kinda got away with blaming you, but…”

  Between heavy breaths of her own, she interrupted, “Blaming me? What the hell did I do?”

  “Showed up to the game lookin’ good as fuck just to turn me down again.”

  That reminder made her giggle as she insisted, “I tried to stop you.”

  “You did,” I agreed with a smirk. “And I knew it was a cheap excuse, as proven by my poor play in game two that ain’t have shit to do with you.”

  Following Bleu’s lead, I slowed the speed of my machine as she did the same with hers, her hands on her head as she went into a brisk walk and pressed, “So what’s going on then?”

  “Is this sports reporter Bleu Taylor asking me that, or just Bleu?”

  My real question should’ve been, “Will this shit end up being repeated on television later, or nah?” since the playful squint she responded with didn’t exactly give a clear answer, nor did her suggesting, “I’m always just Bleu.”

  “You know what I mean,” I urged. “Shit, for all I know, they could’ve planted your ass here this morning for an undercover exclusive.”

  The full-blown laugh she responded with felt like a good thing, even when she insisted, “Kage, I already told you I didn’t even think anyone else would be here this early. And besides, I’m technically on leave from my job right now which means this conversation is completely off the record.”

  Seeing the way the last part of her statement made her a little sad had me quick to want to take her mind off that shit. And even though it wasn’t the easiest thing for me to talk about since I was still trying to figure it all out my damn self, something about Bleu made me feel comfortable enough to share, “Aight, so last season, there really wasn’t a lot of pressure on me, right? I mean, there were no real expectations for the team to live up to since nobody thought we’d be about shit. And even though I was taken in the first round of the draft, most analysts had low expectations for my performance on the court cause they expected the trouble I stayed in off the court to override my talent. But now, everything is just different. I mean, I really got the potential to be an All-Star, and the squad is being talked about as a serious contender for the championship, and I think all the hype is just… fuckin’ with my head a little bit.”

  I hadn’t been able to draw that conclusion before. But thinking about it now, it made perfect sense.

  In my rookie season, without a bunch of nationally-televised games for people to evaluate my play night after night, I was able to just do my thing under the radar instead of riding the dangerous wave of the critics who got off on their “hot takes” being proven right whether those predictions benefitted me or not. But this year, it had only taken two preseason games for me to be turned into a target, branded as the underperforming player on what was otherwise viewed as a solid squad. And even if my teammates and coaches claimed they didn’t see it that way at the moment, I knew it was only a matter of time before they started buying into that bullshit and treating me accordingly.

  A few less minutes played here.

  A few less touches there.

  An “experiment” to start the rookie guard that would somehow turn into the job being his permanently…

  Just thinking about that shit had me hot, ready to give them all a premature “fuck you” as if every single one of those made-up scenarios couldn’t be avoided by me simply getting my shit together. But I suppose I was going about it the right way by being here now, Bleu casually leading us into another sprint while asking, “Weren’t you the one who said you were glad the Nymphs won the championship because it put some much-needed pressure on y’all to d
o the same?”

  “Yeah, but that was just interview talk.”

  Even through her strenuous breaths, she managed to push out a laugh. “Oh, so you just said whatever sounded good during my shit, huh? Wow. Okay. I see how it is, Kage.”

  Unlike her, I didn’t have the extra energy to explain myself, waiting until the end of the sprint to breathily say, “You know what I meant.”

  “Mmhmm,” she groaned teasingly, working to catch her own breath before she said, “Nah, seriously though. That pressure can be a bitch. You work so hard to earn the attention and respect in your field. And then once you get it, you realize it comes with the weight of expectations that will never go away… unless you go away. And since I don’t think that’s in your plans, you gotta learn how to control the volume.”

  My sweaty eyebrow piqued curiously when I repeated, “Control the volume?”

  “Yeah,” she nodded with her hands on her hips, looking over my way to explain, “When you’re great at something, there’s always gonna be chatter around it. But it’s up to you to decide how high or low you wanna keep the volume. Some people are fueled by everything they hear, negative and positive. Some people turn it off completely and instead put that energy directly towards perfecting their craft.”

  Since she knew enough about the concept to be explaining that shit to me, I asked, “Which one are you?”

  “I’m somewhere in the middle,” she answered, switching her treadmill into cool down mode as she continued, “It’s nice getting all the different reactions to my work. But at the end of the day, I’m happy doing what I love regardless of what people have to say about it, even when the subjects of my interviews tell bold-faced lies.”

  That last part was clearly a jab at me, making me chuckle as I defended, “It wasn’t a lie. I guess I just had more confidence about it then than I do now.”