Love In the Red Zone (Connecticut Kings Book 1) (4 page)

“How was he today...behavior-wise?” Her little frame within vocal range.

I cringed inside understanding the nature of her question. I’d done the “walk to the car and rat out the kid” trip once more after that first night. I hated it, but something was really going on with Kyree. If he didn’t have a peculiar and particular talent on the field, I wouldn’t care. If he’d been behaving that way since I met him in August when practice season started, there’d be no need to inform her. But there had been a marked change in him over the past two weeks or so.

I gave an emphasized nod and answered, “He was focused today.”

“Good!” she shouted back. “I had his father speak to him.”

I gave another nod and waved before turning away. Hopefully, that did the trick. I would know next week during practice. Again, why I cared was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I climbed into my pickup and took off.

My phone rang before I made it to the highway. Recognizing the name on the caller I.D., I answered right away.

“What’s good, JJ.”

“Ain’t nothing, TB. Mike Taylor’s celebrating his birthday in Belize next weekend. He wants the Jordan-Bailey roll out.” I heard the smile in his voice.

Mike was m
y
right guard in Connecticut.

“Nah, man, I’m good.” I tried for a soft no.

“C’mon, man!”
Here we go
. “You know I got you, TB. You ain’t gotta worry about nothing. It’ll be good to roll out
Shoot ‘Em Up!
They say Brielle is gonna be there. You know she comin’ for you.”

Brielle
…

That was a name I could go without hearing for a while. These were times when I remembered. Times when I felt the pain of my loss. The time when I lived the circumstances of my actions. It’s when I paid. Again.

“Nah, man. There’s a conference my church is having that I’m thinking about hitting up in two weeks,” I declined, hating to do it to JJ.

“A’ight, TB. But don’t act like you don’t know we’re brothers, man—ride or die. You’d do it for me.”

“No doubt.”

“A’ight. Call me, man. I’ll be in New York next week. Let’s get up.”

“No doubt. Text me when and I’ll make it happen.”

“Cool. I’ll holla.”

I disconnected the call, my chest heavy, limbs tight as I merged onto the highway, heading home. Jordan Johnson, aka JJ, was my dude. Definitely one of my best friends. We met at training camp his first year in the league. We clicked right away and got into lots of trouble and had the best plays together. Our upbringings couldn’t have been more different, but you could never tell. We had been inseparable up until my imprisonment. Rarely would you see one and not the other at the best parties if we weren’t throwing them. It killed me to turn down yet another invitation to kick it with him.

Our memories could never be replaced, our chemistry would likely never change; however, our lifestyles had. Jordan was still one of the dopest wide receivers in the league. And I was now one of the illest
fired
quarterbacks. He made sure to stay in touch with me during my eighteen-month stint in FCI Oxford, a federal prison in Wisconsin. Although I took a step back from the spotlight since my release, Jordan had been there for me every step of the way. That had been the opposite reaction to my conviction than what most of my so called friends had. I didn’t need money while away, but calls and visits shouldn’t have been a big deal to athletes, actors, and musicians who claimed to be my people even when giving interviews during my arrest and trial. When I arrived behind those barbed wires and metal bars, I heard nothing but crickets from the majority of my associates.

That led me into a perpetual state of social paranoia. I trusted very few now. And I do mean few. I could count on one hand how many people I fucked with like that. Disappointment turned into resentment and anger. That anger gave way to bitterness. Life turned so dark the last three months of my term, I needed help navigating through it to prepare for my release. I turned to the only person I could trust to help me out of that black pit. My pastor, Ezra Carmichael. He came to visit me five times during my sentence, and called every other week. He sent encouraging materials and even oversaw the handling of my estate while I transitioned as property of the federal government. When I was released, he was there waiting at the gate with Jordan, NBA great, Stenton Rogers, and Shank. Ezra even selected and purchased the Italian suit I traded my prison gear for.

As I pulled into my gated property, punching in the security code, my mind ran with the memory of my time away. I was number seven on the field, but in prison I was inmate number 34332-468, a number I had to commit to memory.  I went in with the perception of federal prison being like a campgrounds, a relaxed environment. I was dead wrong. While I was assigned to a medium security facility, I lived in the same brick walls; lay on the same thin cots; ate the same shitty food that inmates did in state prisons across the country. It didn’t matter that I was a millionaire. This was not the country club one would assume for non-maximum security prisons. I was inmate 34332-468, assigned a uniform to blend in—or stick out in society should I attempt escape—and bin number to identify my clothing for laundry reasons.

I ran upstairs to my room, taking two steps at a time. My adrenaline had started pumping when I began remembering again. Quickly, I changed into running shoes, a dri-fit shirt, socks, shorts, and a t-shirt. Then I grabbed my
Beats
headphones from the dresser in my walk-in closet, and placed them on my head on the way out the master suite. I hopped back down the stairs, headed for the backyard. Fall was near, but the air still had a crisp remnant of summer in the outdoor scent. There was a gym on my lower level, but I wanted to feel the breeze of the outdoors. I ran the maze of my backyard that led to the track field that surrounded the in-ground pool.  

My home had become my place of comfort. The tall trees and wooded parameters shut everyone out. The house itself was big enough to hide in, and that’s what I did. I spent most of my days working out on the Rutgers college campus or here at home. The remaining time was dedicated to church or volunteering with the kids. That’s it. Not much more. I didn’t have a social life, much preferring to ride out my life the same way I did while in prison: virtually alone. As I ran the rubber surface, I admitted to being good with having just a handful of people in my life. It was less complicated that way. 

I ran a few laps before heading back in the house to hydrate. Then I took downstairs to the gym to do exercises targeting my core. I didn’t want to lose my physique. It was all I had. I needed to keep moving, and only knew one way to do it. I grabbed a kettle bell and did single leg squats and power pulls. Working out kept my mind. It made me feel in control of me, and that relaxed me because I learned three years ago that we have little control over much else. Even when I used to work out with strength coaches, it felt like a singular task.
I’m in my own head, leaving everyone and everything else out
.

I transitioned to TRX inverted row progression techniques and then to back toe taps before finishing up with body saws to mountain climbers. By the time I was stretching, the sun had gone down. I was drenched with sweat, beat beyond capacity, and I loved it. Especially today because I beat the dark shadows of depression. I didn’t let it engulf me as it had the power to do on many days. As I trudged up the steps, breath still out of sequence, I narrowed my mind on how I’d cure my growling belly. First was a protein shake. After grabbing one from the fridge, I opted for the elevator to the second floor, my legs burned in protest. They’d taken a beating as did my whole body, all to combat my mind.

After showering and finding a combination of three items to make a meal, I dumped myself in the bed. This was it for me. This would be my Saturday regimen for the fall: Pop Warner football, then working out long enough to end the day in a haze of exhaustion. Tomorrow, I would attend church and workout all over again.

This was me: Mr. Lone and Simple.

“I can’t believe how big you’ve grown.” She pulled in a dramatic breath. “and mannerly! You’re most handsome, too.” My mother’s beaming eyes glanced over the table to me.

“Thank you,” Kyree responded monotone, far more into playing with his half eaten roll than charming his grandmother.

“Oh, Jade, he looks like you when you were that age.”

What she meant was she was happy to see he didn’t resemble his father. It had only been nine months since she had last seen Kyree. She invited me over last Christmas to pick up gifts for him. I brought him along and stayed all of twenty minutes in her sitting room while their guests were being entertained in the formal living room. As soon as she finished with her ceremonially detached greeting, brought out his gifts, and asked a hired waiter to assist me with them to my car, she said good night to us. I didn’t want to focus on that tonight. Dinner had been unusually pleasant. My mother couldn’t keep her eyes or attention off of Kyree. She’d been different.

“Hey!” she gasped playfully to Kyree from the opposite end of the enormous dining room table. “I have the makings of a sundae! Would you like one? Or are you a strawberry shortcake kind of guy, Kyree?”

“Yes!” Ky nodded just as cheerful as her proposal, his smile carelessly displaying his missing tooth.

My mother pushed away from the table and waved him on. “Come on, KyKy!”

KyKy?

Only I called him that…and his paternal grandmother. My mother wanted that level of familiarity with my son?

I stretched my neck, trying to calm myself. Since the beginning of this visit when I observed her unusual warmth, for a second—a brief one—I considered asking for a loan to catch up on my rent and electric bill. I hadn’t asked my mother for help since the day I left her home after meeting Ryshon, Kyree’s father, and she learned he was a thug I’d hopelessly fallen in love with. She told me if I wanted to be with trash, I could live with it, and put me out. In her defense, I would have left home on my own. I’d gotten bitten by the love bug in the form of a bad boy. That was the proverbial demise for a reckless suburban upper-middle class girl like me.

As my mother hugged Kyree when meeting him near the door, I noticed her femininely graceful frame. At forty-two my mother made women my age look like old hags. Her clear and smooth butterscotch skin appeared even more bronzed tonight, making me wonder if she’d recently vacationed. Her hair was cut short all over, tapered with precision and dyed sandy blonde. It went well with her green eyes peppered with golden specs around her irises. Yes, my mother was an African American woman with pure green eyes. Mine were hazel, and all my life I felt odd because they weren’t green as the stem of roses like my mother’s, though we were of the same bloodline. It wasn’t enough that I possessed an exotic feature; it wasn’t good enough because it wasn’t identical to my mother’s who was the personification of perfection.

Chéri McDowell was considered gorgeous by all who knew her. She couldn’t help it. She was graceful, cultured, well-socialized, and could hold court when having to entertain my step-father’s well-heeled society guests, who were mostly political figures or attorneys. He was an accomplished corporate attorney himself, working with well-known fast food corporations, and she was his arm candy. 

Even now with her relaxed capris, simple silk blouse and three-quarter-length-sleeved cashmere cardigan, Chéri dripped elegance effortlessly. Her femininity filled the room, drawing attention to her featly movements. I inherited her petite build; at five feet even, I was only taller by an inch. My full breasts and meaty bottom must have come from my father’s side because while she was nicely proportioned, my mother didn’t have robust mounds and curves like me. She was slender, fit. It was a topic of constant contention between us as a developing teen. I’d gone against her ideal gymnast’s physique. She called it being lazy and not working out, outside of my practices. I called it puberty. That was us; always at war. Two feisty petite women, spitting fire at one another.

“You know…” she turned to me, eyes glistening with joy. “There’s a new athlete that goes to our church…a ball player. George knows his name.” Her eyes jumped to my step-father sitting at the table, wiping his mouth with an
Anelli Noir
linen napkin. “He has a son about Kyree’s age and when I watch him play quietly in church or interact with his family, my heart melts. I have to remind myself that I have a grandbaby I can indulge in.” She spoke with a glowing face and her million-dollar smile exposed.

There was the truth. That was why we were here. She saw a celebrity’s kid that reminded her my child existed. I sighed silently, my eyes falling to the table as they walked out hand-in-hand. Attacked by humility, no matter how self-imposed it was, I was now ready to leave. I immediately told myself not to. Even if my mother had horrible inspiration, Kyree needed exposure to my family. God knows he’d spent his fair share of time with Ryshon’s crazy family. I wanted him to have a piece of my culture, too. No matter how pretentious and sterile it could be from time to time.

“You look disappointed.” George cleared his throat at the other end of the table.

He sat facing straight ahead, though I knew he was inviting me into a conversation. It was his thing.

“Shouldn’t I be? I just learned the motivation behind the invite I’ve waited seven years for is as shallow as I’ve grown accustomed to my mother being.” I sighed, sitting up in my chair, and grabbed my fork to push the remainder of my maple duck and steamed vegetables around the plate. “And in spite of that letdown, in some sick way, I’m grateful.”

George sat up even taller in his seat. “Believe it or not, she’s getting better. I was surprised when she told me she wanted to do this. This isn’t the only area in which Chéri seems to have had a recent change of heart,” he mumbled, tossing his linen napkin in his plate. “Her heart is changing, I believe.”

My brows peaked. “What could bring that about? What’s a miracle like that called?” I gasped my facetiousness.

He snorted, eyes cast to the wall in front of him. “Though it’s no laughing matter, I can understand your sarcasm. I believe it’s church.”

I scoffed. “She’s been attending for what…ten years now?”
Try again, George
.

While waiting for his response, I grabbed my water from the table, needing to wet my mouth.   

“We have a new minister preaching at the church. His approach to change is wholly and not just surface matters.” Then his eyes aligned with mine. “I think your mother’s paying attention.” He shrugged with his neck before standing. “It’s only been a few months. Let’s see if he does the real trick.” He winked at me.

My face brightened at that. George married my mother when I was eight years old. He had been the only father I knew. He was a quiet man on the home front, but a spitfire dragon in the court room. I’d seen him in action on a number of occasions, and often considered the duality of his personality. My mother worked well on his arm. She’d picked up the charm at a time when he preferred being seen with her and not heard. George adored my mother, but never regulated her when she needed it most. He gave her full control of the wealth he spent a career building. Whatever she wanted, he’d provide. Whenever she complained, he made the concern go away. And when she fought me, he never interfered, no matter how ridiculous her controlling ways had been. But he’d always been kind to me, coming behind her offering money or resources to soothe the burn she’d left behind.

“You didn’t have to lose touch with me, you know,” he murmured, bringing my attention back to the room. “I know you and your mother have always had your bouts, but it has never been my intent to join sides with her. I’m a neutral party, your allay.”

And that’s why we’re not in touch, George
…

“She’s your wife. You protect her,” I explained softly, my eyes straining as I fortified myself. “I get it now.”

After a few moments of silence, he nodded. “But do you need anything? Anything? I worry about you two out there alone all the time.” His voice was authoritative, strong.

It definitely carried weight as a man with power and wealth. My mother enrolled me into every camp, prep academy, and scout group that she thought could produce a debutante. George here wrote the check for each endeavor. He’d done more than enough. It didn’t matter that my son and I could be evicted at any moment or that we’d been showering without electricity and charging our devices from my beat up car. I wasn’t his responsibility.  

“We’re fine, George,” I whispered, my throat closing from the lie. “Thank you.”

My eyes ducked, too.

“Very well.” He nodded. “You never have to be ashamed to ask.”

“I’m sad to see you go, Kyree,” she spoke solemnly with a pout as she squatted next to his little frame. “But I’ll tell you what: I’ll talk to your mom about us spending time together soon and more often. Would you like that?”

Ky nodded, his eyes drooping and as doleful as her painted on expression. My son was expectantly tired at this hour and sad. Sad about going home to no power again. He’d be leaving a large and luxurious South Orange home to return to his dark East Orange apartment. I silently prayed he wouldn’t make mention of it. Asking my son to keep such a secret further twisted my heart.

My mother stretched her neck to glance at me. “Is that okay, Jade?”

First my eyes stretched then I was able to speak. “
Su
-sure!”

Her gaze penetrated me. I didn’t know what it was filled with, but her stare was loaded.

I broke it by extending my arm. “Come on, Kyree. Let’s get you down for the night.”

I then turned to face him, his eyes were still heavy, weary, but I would manage that like I did everything else. My son and I would be fine even if I didn’t have the slightest idea how.