Love In the Red Zone (Connecticut Kings Book 1)

by Love Belvin

  “What’re you doing?”

  My eyes danced around, my pulse pounding.

  “Uhhh… Stress cleaning.”

  Then Trenton’s eyes scoured the place, finding the Windex I was able to locate in the bare cabinets and pantries, and paper towels I used to clean the windows.

  “This late?”

  “I’m a mom. It’s the best time to get anything done,” I shrieked, feeling unwelcome under his glare.

  With wide nostrils and incredibly broad and muscular shoulders, he exited the door sideways. Probably how he came in…

  This Trenton was still strange to me, but not in a gross way: in an intriguing way. He had a luxury home with a four car garage, but owned just two vehicles. One was a luxury SUV and the other a fixer upper pickup that he worked on weekly. He also had old world details in the architecture of his home, like intricately carved frames in his walls and ceiling, lush crown molding, two-story windows in his lower level rooms, and an elevator and two staircases, but his vernacular was lazy and he spoke mostly slang. He was formal with me, but very relaxed and even silly with Kyree.

  By the fourth day, I had a key and was asked not to call him Trenton and that Trent would be fine. That was okay with me because it lessened the formality and stodgy distance between us, though I would have liked to have eliminated more. It was clear to me by the end of the first week we were there that I was indisputably attracted to Kyree’s coach. If he had a clue, it would have been from the way that I sat on the bleachers the following practices instead of holing up in the car doing homework or shooting the shit with my cousin, Lashawn like I used to. Suddenly, I was interested in what drew these two guys together, low key wishing I could borrow it for my own success with Trenton. I didn’t want to marry the man or sleep with him. I just wanted to get him to lower his guard and get to know him. I couldn’t believe the sudden crush myself. I hadn’t been interested in a man in years. But there was something mysteriously intriguing about his paradoxical lifestyle. The fact that we drove separately to East Orange and returned to the same house at night—with me driving his truck—added to that incongruity.

  I cooked since the first week we were there, being sure to make meals and amounts with Trent in mind. At first, he’d wait until Kyree and I were done before claiming his portion of the feast. Then Kyree asked him to eat with us at the table and with great trepidation, Trent joined us one night. I kept quiet, only speaking to Ky when necessary and stealing glances at the big ogre each chance I could.

  We developed a rhythm in no time. Ky and I were up and out by 7:15 each morning when I’d cook breakfast, leaving enough behind for Trent. I’d drop Kyree off to school, hit up a library where I would set up a laptop and look for jobs until the one nail salon I worked at in the morning opened. Somewhere toward midday, I’d leave one salon for the other and work until six when Kyree’s afterschool program adjourned and picked him up to head back to Alpine for dinner and bed. After Ky fell out, which was usually within minutes, I’d leave the room to tend to school work and then clean, if I couldn’t find sleep after.

  Trenton’s home had a semi-level between the first and second floors. The only way to access it was from the rear staircase. It was a fraction of the width of the home, unlike the other floors. The section was predominantly one room, which was a television room, and a half bathroom. Like the kitchen, the guest bedroom where Ky and I stayed, and his master suite, it was furnished. All the other rooms in the house were empty. The television room was carpeted and had an oversized plush tan suede sofa and end tables. There was a cinema-sized screen Trent used for his television. Countless wired gadgets were attached to the system, mostly games and stereo equipment.

  Trenton spent lots of his time in there when he wasn’t in the gym on the lower level, working out. Kyree would join him for games on the PlayStation and watching television from time to time. He didn’t speak much, but he nodded, greeting me in passing. He’d talk to Kyree lots. They were loud and rambunctious in there where they talked smack to each other like equals. It made me wonder if Ryshon were home would he have a similar chemistry with our son. I didn’t spend much time mulling over that expectation. I hustled to find another job, though it would interfere with my collection of instruction hours for my nail licensing while I waited to hear back from Section 8 for permanent housing for Ky and me.

  ~Four

  “A futures contract?” I asked with the first few pages of a fifty-page document between my fingers.

  I was insulted, pissed the hell off. No wonder this was a secret meeting. Now I recognized the setup.

  “Pseudo-futures contracts,” Bob Wonders, head of legal for the Connecticut Kings, tried to decorate my perception. “It’s what we like to view as an introduction into a new relationship with you.” He smiled too broadly, suddenly identifying himself as a snake.

  “Dude, I was a franchise player for this team less than two years ago.” I looked Eli Richardson, the team owner and my former employer, dead in the eye. “I was awarded the Heisman Trophy, won a national championship, and became the first overall pick in an NFL draft within one year, broke your franchise record of 647 yards during my first game on an NFL field. My total passing yards over the first three games on your field was 1,063 yards, the only quarterback ever to have 400 yards passing, throw six touchdowns, and tally over 200 yards rushing in the same game… I can go on and on with this, bruh. And all you have to offer me is a futures contract?”

  “With all due respect, Trent, you’ve been off the field for almost two years,” Eli tried to argue, sitting up, tenting his fingers under his chin.

  “A year and a half!” I corrected. I’d been using the Rutgers campus to run and pass the ball since a week after my release and it was now the first week in October.

  There were almost ten of us at the conference table, only two representing me, and I refused to bow down to the setup. This was a joke!

  “Duke, let’s just hear them out,” Azmir Jacobs advised with his usual shrewd delivery.

  “Yeah, let’s, D. I don’t know whose side you’re on if you think there’s any respect or dignity in this whack-ass agreement,” I shot back over to him.

  Azmir Divine Jacobs was the odd party at the table this morning in the Kings headquarters’ front office. A business mogul with much of his trade being in the entertainment realm; he, however, created significant wealth in mergers and acquisitions. Divine—as I referred to him—threw my draft party. It was unheard of, his enthusiasm for the Connecticut Kings. You would’ve thought he was on the payroll, or that the team’s payroll was his. Everyone familiar with him knew he held season tickets for the L.A. Lakers, but you only had to know his name to know Divine worshipped the Kings. He was a fanatic of the highest degree, attending eighty percent of the games a season. He sponsored most Kings events and even added his recommendations of drafting to the owner and coaches annually. They not only entertained his input, they accommodated it. It was unusual, but well known in the industry.

  Since getting signed to the Kings, Divine had grown into a personal friend. It was odd that we shared the same attorney and legal team. That minor fact boosted my ego for a minute. I mean, I was eighteen years old with the same set of lawyers as A.D. Jacobs. He was no celebrity, but known by all. Sought after by all who wanted in the circle he ran. I’d heard rumors about him being a drug lord. None were truly substantiated, and in all honesty, I grew up with hustlers so it was no issue to me. Divine played big brother to me, giving me mainstream appeal and credibility. That all lent itself to marketability and huge endorsement deals. I signed my first non-NFL multi-million dollar check thanks to Divine. But now he seemed as traitorous as Eli, his son, Nate, and every other representative of my former family, the Kings.

  “You know where my loyalties lie. You’re the best look for this team,” Divine replied.

  “Then put me on the field where I belong!” My chin and brows rose in the air, challenging Eli.

  “We will,” Eli assure
d. “We just want to be smart and strategic about this. We need to make sure you’re ready.”

  “I am ready! You said it yourself. You’ve kept an eye on my numbers since I’ve been practicing at Rutgers.”

  Eli shook his head. “It’s not the same thing. It’s not NFL experience.”

  “Yo, man.” I felt my nose expanding. I was vexed. Got all dressed up and hope’d up to be bitch slapped and offered to be paid for it. “I spoke to Goodell last night and he said he agreed with your plan. I ain’t seeing no plan. I’m drowning out here and all y’all wanna do is narrow the ocean that’s swallowing me.”

  “TB, man—” Divine attempted.

  “Uh, Mr. Jacobs,” my attorney, Edward Chesney, interjected. He sat up in his chair and rested his elbows on the table. “I do understand the unspoken facets of our association; however, today I am not only here representing Mr. Bailey, I’m an avid champion for the man, his brand, and livelihood. As far as I am concerned, sir, you are an irrelevant and extremely silent partner in this, legally.” The moment Divine flicked a ‘Muthafucka, do I have to remind you who laced your pockets’ brow, Chesney’s vocal inflection changed, hiked to override the silent scolding. “I’d like for you to allow myself and Esquire Wonders to discuss the pending—”

  “…impending,” Bob Wonders interjected.

  I’d seen Bob turned up. Had lots of dealings with him during my arrest and trial, as he attended watching over Chesney and his team in case they slipped. But his cleverness had shit on Chesney’s shrewd ass.

  “Oh, no, Bob,” Chesney returned calm, tone threateningly low. “The relationship between Mr. Bailey and the Connecticut Kings is most certainly pending and nowhere near fixed as I thumb through this…weakened and loosely committed proposal, supposedly protecting the once profitable and secure bond the two entities shared.” He continued with the inflections that made his presentation insulting to the recipient and comical to me.

  “Pardon me?” Bob, who could be no less than seventy years old flexed, with spit flinging from his mouth. “This is beyond fair, and you know it!”

  “I see…” Chesney sat back, crossed his long arms over his chest, leaving one up to rest his chin on his index finger. There was a break for contemplation before he spoke again. “I see no particular title for him on your roster, there is no period of consideration in the event the Kings do not decide to absorb Mr. Bailey on its permanent roster within a reasonable timeframe, and—ahhhhh!” he aligned his eyes with Eli Richardson. “There is no sign-on bonus and a very mediocre and easily exhaustive stipend for a man of Mr. Bailey’s standing.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Divine flip through the contract in front of him.

  “It’s a futures contract, not a veteran one!” Bob argued with a rosy face heated from anger. “Hell, it isn’t even a free agent tender!”

  With an unmatched volume, Chesney returned, “Because you’re not freeing him up for other teams. We all know if Trent signs this, he’ll be in your back pocket, away from the pickings of your opponents.”

  The room grew quiet—too fucking quiet to say my career was on the line. My agent Pete studied me with pained eyes.

  Ephesians 4:26… whispered in the recesses of my mind.

  I’d given this team too much. Had taken them too far. It was because of me that the name Kings caught the attention of fans, and because of my chemistry with Jordan Johnson that the name had become a household brand. To have me sit out for an unnamed time and have my brother, Jordan, out there with no QB support was utter bullshit! Ephesians 4:26… I knew his challenges, understood his fears of wasting his prime years with a mediocre team! This was fucked up and Eli knew it. All the praying I’d done, the fasting, and waiting was for…this?

  I hit a wall.

  “Yo, Eli.” Straightening in my chair, I brushed my thumb over my nose, trying to detract from the rage building within. “Be angry and sin not….” “This is what I know, man. It’s what I eat and breathe. I understand you used to run the same ball, but inside you was an entrepreneur. Well, for me this is it. Balling or I die. I can’t be expected to get locked in a dead end deal and lose valuable field-potential years, sitting inactive on the roster of a team I made.” I smacked my chest with an open palm. “I built! I’ve been following the team. I see your numbers. You need me!” I took a deep breath, feeling my emotions swelling in my throat. “My brother needs—” I couldn’t speak.

  “So, as you can see here—” Chesney interjected.

  An abrupt scraping of a chair against the carpet caught my attention. Divine shot from his chair to his feet, quietly commanding, “A moment, TB.” He headed to the door.

  At a defeated pace, I quietly followed him out of the start of the art conference room, eyes drawn to the rich royal blue carpeting. When I made it to him down the hall, Divine faced the window letting out to the busy streets of the hectic city. The sounds of the backdrop of bustling metropolitan blocked out by the soundproof windows gave the deceptive impression of a controlled environment. Separation of the real world versus what went on in the Connecticut Kings’ front office. Divine stood tall and collected himself with his head cocked to the side, silently observing the traffic patterns.

  He sensed when I stopped, just feet away from him.

  “You’re bringing a one-dimensional perspective to that table, chief.” There was a slight pause. “I understand your fortune is at stake. I know the fears of a young black man out here trying to survive with no daddy below, waiting to catch you in your fall from the tight rope between the pages of his checkbook. But unlike you, I lived a life with no athletic or artistic hustle. I didn’t carry a ball to ride me out to wealth. I didn’t write rhymes, paint pictures, build or repair cars… hell, I ain’t even know how to draw. School bored me shitless.”

  He finally turned to me, a flame in his eyes I couldn’t explain, but could certainly identify. “But I had the ability to hustle. See, you could run and throw the ball. So long as you didn’t injure yourself, you could accumulate wealth. Wealth that could—if you were prudent—be used for your grandchildren to eat. Not me.” He shook his head and scoffed. “It was coming from the dome or I starved. Fuck grandkids. My sperm would be too weak to spit out seeds to reach them. I took a few innate and invaluable tools with me throughout my late teens and twenties and flipped money and business until I could no longer count my own bread or remember all my rubber-banded stashes by myself. I thought I had someone looking out for me, but at the end of the day, I learned I stood alone.”

  He stepped closer. “That ain’t your story, duke. Mine isn’t your plight. Eli had been criticized on the low for favoring you and JJ.” That news hit me like a ton of bricks, causing my eyes to balloon. “From day one, he bent over backwards, accommodating you guys in ways that went against NFL business. It was a slap in the face for you to be sent up north over that bullshit.” I felt the blow from that statement. Felt a sudden rush of guilt with each syllable he spoke. “He didn’t fuck up and put the team in jeopardy. You did. And I get how you get all caught up in your feelings about the record-breaking shit you brought to the team—and know you’re right. But that man has a multi-billion-dollar franchise he has to act in the best interest of. He put his money on you and lost. In fact,” He straightened in stance, “if we wanna keep it one hun’ed your decision hurt JJ’s career. Put him in a precarious situation, but he’s still riding with you.” My eyes ballooned. “We all are. Right now, Richardson wants you back, but wants to be smart. Hell no, he don’t want nobody else absorbing you, specifically because of your extreme talent, but also because it takes away the winning chemistry of you and JJ.”

  “There’s no chemistry if I’m not throwing the ball, Divine.”

  “You spoke to Roger.” I nodded. “That alone tells me the plan they have is solid.”

  “Plan?” My neck snapped back.

  Divine’s eyes swept to the sides and behind me, telling of his caution. “I’ve already spoken too much.” His
eyebrow rose. “I need you to trust me on this, TB.”

  “Trust is a complicated and lofty term after looking at that weak contract in there.” I used my thumb to gesture to the room.

  He exhaled, muscles shifting underneath his sleek Italian suit. His eyes reached his clean leather loafers, reminding me of the power Divine always held by his presence alone with the way he presented himself. He may’ve used some emotion when it came to his beloved Kings, but Azmir Jacobs moved calculatedly and inaudibly in his pursuits like a boss. He never bragged about upcoming deals; you got it with everyone else—when it touched the ground. He’d taught me that: strategy and predator-like maneuvers in business.

  “Engage your opponents with your eyes, while defeating them with your mind. They’ll never understand your strategic win afterward.” It’s what he’d told me years ago.

  Today, his message was different. Simplistic. “You trust me on this and I owe you. My word must be good on what’s going down in that conference room or as who you’ll be able to cash in this favor from, duke.” He pounded over his heart on his chest. “My word is my bond and my bond is my life.”

  There was something compelling in his eyes, something that I couldn’t ignore. On a deep breath, I hung my head, a symbol of my capitulation. I turned and headed back into the conference room. En route to my seat, Chesney signaled me with his eyes. I communicated ‘negotiate’ by yanking my ear with two fingers instead of one with a thumb. He nodded ever so slightly before turning to Divine, who swiped his thumb with chin, signing all was good. These were just a few of the non-verbal cues we learned as his clients.