by Imani King
Wingate turns and looks at me, his face deadly cold. It’s a little hard to take him seriously with that tidy haircut of his all mussed up, and the button-down shirt he’s wearing that’s just a little too short in the sleeves. “Let me repeat myself and make it very clear what’s happening during this particular offseason, cuz. Eddie Davidson, the owner of the team that pays you millions of dollars each year to throw a ball around—”
“I do more than throw balls around,” I say, reaching forward for the remote. Wingate gets up and lifts his foot up table-height to kick the remote across the room.
“I’m not done,” he says. “Listen before you turn that idiot box back on and pick up your phone to answer the twenty-two different texts from the twenty-two different girls banging on your door.”
“There are twenty-two texts?” I grin at Wingate.
“It’s an educated guess. And don’t you reach for your phone if you know what’s good for you. I’m liable to kick that damn thing across the floor too, as much time as you spend glued to it.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll attempt to listen for once.” I meet his cold gaze and start to tune myself out, thinking about the party tomorrow. I’ll get that shipment of kegs from the usual place, get the catering from New York—they freeze that shit and put it on a plane these days, so that’ll be a damn fine plan. I click down the list of details in my head from the very beginning of the time Wingate opens his mouth. He rambles on about how I’m giving up my career, about how Eddie’s a lot more conservative than the old owner, about what I used to be capable of when I was playing for Brooks. And there’s more stuff about my image, too. Image this and image that, and what would my mother and father think if they were still around, and what will my aunt and uncle say when we go home for their birthdays at the end of August, and all sorts of bullshit that doesn’t make a damn bit of difference regarding how I play ball.
It’s all stuff I’ve heard before, and it turns into an incessant drone that beats against my eardrums in the most horrible way possible. Instead of trying to absorb the repeated words and phrases, I go back to organizing the party in my head. Last time, I had girls wrestle in inflatable kiddie pools full of baby oil, and one thing led to another and... well, that was a fun night. I barely had enough energy for all three of them, but I managed. I give Wingate a lopsided grin thinking about that night and the switching off between girls I had to do to make sure everyone was appropriately satisfied. But Wingate doesn’t notice. He just keeps on keeping on.
And then he does it. He mentions a name that I’ve forbidden in this house. That snaps me back to reality. Any thought of her snaps me out of whatever I’m thinking about if I’m being perfectly honest.
The thought of her comes up a lot more often than I ever intended, but her name—Wingate knows not to cross that line.
But he keeps on.
I wonder if we’ll be testing out that headlock real soon here, because I don’t want to hear that woman’s name, think about the cascade of her pitch black hair, the curve of her deep-red come-hither smile, or the curve-to-muscle ratio of her astoundingly perfect body.
But he continues, talking about her and what she thought of me when I was in school, what she noticed about me when I played, what I’m doing now that’s utterly different—and goddamn, he’s right about some of it, though I wouldn’t remember it. She had a better mind for sports than me and Wingate put together.
“... what would Renata say about all this, huh, Mack? She had this vision of you as this football superhero, and damned if I didn’t believe every word that woman said. She was right about everything. She was a better influence on you than anyone else ever managed to be. She made you into a better player, a better person. And now look at you, sinking down every season, further and further. I’m seeing it now. What will it be in a year? Drugs? Marrying some eighteen year-old girl to get attention when your plays go to shit? Renata was—”
“You don’t mention her, Wingate. Ever.” My voice is as cool as Wingate’s eyes.
My cousin looks directly at me and does it again. “Renata. You’re going to have to get used to that name again, cuzzo. I’m not pussy-footing around a grown-ass man with hurt feelings. I’m saying Renata was right. She was right that you’re a god when it comes to everything that matters in this godforsaken, dangerous sport you love so much. But you’re not treating football like you love it anymore.”
Now I’m listening. Scowling, growing hotter and hotter. I undo the recliner and bring myself to standing, eye to eye with Wingate.
“Don’t say something you’re about to regret, man. You’ve said a lot of things this morning, each one of them more questionable than the last. I’m Big Mack, and if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have a job.”
“You’re not treating football like you love it. That’s what I said. It’s gotten to the point where you do need some re-branding, cuz.” He says the last word sarcastically like it’s a joke that I’m his cousin at all. “And when I think about it, it’s awfully funny. You loved Renata too, didn’t you?”
“Wingate. Stop.” My hands instinctively clench into fists.
“Yeah, you did. You were crazy about her. You were going to marry her.”
“Wingate—I told you.” I crack my knuckles, wondering what his perfectly coiffed hair would do if I punched him across his stupid face. My gut roils, and I get that feeling I get whenever I think of those last few weeks with Renata.
“You know what I think, man? You’re fickle as shit. You’re bored of football, just like you got bored of her.”
Blind, red rage pours through my mind, and I close my eyes, using one of the breathing exercises I looked up on Youtube.
Hands, Mack. Don’t waste your hands on your asshole cousin. It’s not worth it. One. Two. Don’t think of her name. Three. Cool down. Relaxing things. Saunas. Girls in baby oil. A good defensive run, moving like magic across the field.
“I told you not to talk about her,” I hiss, finally opening my eyes and unclenching my fists. “I don’t want to hear her name again.”
“Too bad, cuzzo. I told you I called in reinforcements to get you straight. An entire year you haven’t been listening to me. So I got the best there is.” Wingate’s grin is plastered from ear to ear. I’ve been too big and dumb to notice his backdoor machinations on my career, and this is what I get. Some master plan to bring in one of these PR people who come down like lifestyle police on football and basketball players who are getting into too much trouble.
I sneer and step away from him so I don’t bash in his pretty face. Like I want to. Like he deserves for tossing around stuff from the distant past. “You got someone, huh? Well I’m not listening to a word he says. Like I said, Carolina ain’t kicking me off their team if they know what’s good for them. Bring in whoever you want. I’ll make sure he leaves with his tail between his legs.”
Wingate puts his hands on his hips. “You’re not hearing me, are you bro? I didn’t hire a man since you don’t pay any attention to a single man in the universe since your Pa died.”
“A woman? What difference does it make? She’s still just some agent who won’t have anything revolutionary to say.” My gut pitches again, and I have an itching feeling like there’s something I’m missing.
“I didn’t hire just some agent. I hired the best PR agent in the business. Up and coming under thirty, Sports Illustrated said. She whips guys like you into shape, eats 'em for breakfast.”
“I don’t see how—”
“It took a lot of money to get her to come see you, but the plane lands this afternoon. I figured since you’ve gone down ever since the moment you ran away from that woman, that might be a factor in what you’re going through here. You know, I’ve racked my brain, Mack. I wondered what it was for so long. I still can’t quite put my finger on it. Was it guilt for leaving her? Shame for giving up the best thing you ever had? Or just a general lackadaisical attitude toward life since you hit it big and left your small town days behind
? I might never figure it out.” He chuckles softly and pats me on the arm. “Coincidentally, that woman you left still has a hell of a mind for sports, and a finely tuned sense of marketing. She always was smarter than the two of us put together, wasn’t she?”
I bring my hand to my head and run it through my closely cropped, deep brown hair. I remember that Sports Illustrated article, and the picture too. She looked prettier than the day I left her, her hair long and sleek. She always did take pride in getting it pressed and growing it long, keeping it all her own natural hair. I liked it so much, her eyes deep, rich, and warm—and calculating in a way that you wouldn’t expect from such a gorgeous woman.
Fear and anger mix together with that sinking feeling I get when I think of her, when I think of all the things I did, and every bit of information she doesn’t know.
“Jesus, Wingate.” I have about three hundred other phrases running through my head, and enough rage at my cousin to lift my fists to him again. But suddenly it seems like all the wind has been knocked out of my blustery sails. I sit back down on the sectional.
“She doesn’t want to see you. But she guarantees she’ll whip you into shape.”
“She’s not—you’re making this shit up—”
“Renata Young is at your service, you freaking dipshit.” Wingate leans toward me like he did before. I don’t even see his hand move, but somehow it’s lightning fast. He slaps me on the face—not hard, but enough to sting. And then he turns on his heels and leaves the room.
“Oh and by the way, I do have a date tonight, asshole,” Wingate shouts as he opens the door and slams it behind him.
The emotion rises in me.
Renata.
Jesus tap-dancing Christ.
CHAPTER SIX
It’s hotter than the damn third gate of hell when Mack’s private jet arrives in North Carolina.
When I step off the damn thing, the sauna-like heat hits me like a ton of bricks, and the humidity fogs up my designer prescription sunglasses. I curse under my breath and congratulate myself again for moving to San Francisco. It might get windy as anything and foggy all summer long—but the weather allows for being outside the entire year. In North Carolina, spring and fall are completely perfect—but the summer drives everyone permanently inside.
It’s a good thing air conditioning was invented or no one would live here.
I’m at least glad that Wingate and Mack aren’t at their house in Florida—or the one in South Carolina—it’s even worse there. It’s possible I shouldn’t have been stalking my ex through my connections at the sports agency, but I remind myself that it’s part of the job to know my client’s assets. I’ll conveniently choose to disregard the fact that I started keeping tabs on Mack the second Carolina’s incredible team recruited him, and I have a list of every real estate purchase he’s made in the past six years.
Well, it’ll come in handy now. I’ve got a plan for his appearance at each one of these places. And a connection to the press in all of them.
When my heels hit the tarmac and my glasses clear, I see a tall figure walking across the black pavement, as a white SUV looms in the background. The man’s bright blond hair is severely parted in the middle, his height takes up a significant amount of space on the horizon, and his shirtsleeves are just slightly too short for his long arms. When my glasses are completely clear, I see Wingate’s million dollar smile. A surge of emotion takes me over. There’s sadness there, yes, and unsettling disappointment when I think of the nights we spent together with Macklin, playing spades and going out to get one-dollar cocktails at the local campus bar. But most of all, there’s the immense pleasure that comes from seeing a familiar face after years apart.
Before he even speaks to me, Wingate draws me into a tight hug, nearly lifting my body up off the ground as he does so. Those boys—they never knew how their tall bodies worked when it came down to it—especially when they were bending down to hug a woman.
Wingate takes me by the shoulders and steps back just a little, then bends down to plant a kiss on each cheek. “Renata,” he says, and the word sounds good coming off of his tongue. “You’re just as pretty as I remember. Still making all the boys sweat out there in California?”
“I’m the one sweating while we’re standing here, Wingate. Get me in that Escalade over there and turn the air conditioning on full blast. Who can I talk to about this heat around here? Summer hasn’t even really begun, and I’m already over it.” I can hear a Carolina twang coming out in my voice, the syllables blending together in a way they don’t when I talk to someone in California. It’s as natural as breathing in the pulsing, humid air.
I might not love it here, but it’s home.
He laughs and grins at me, leading me over to the car with the air conditioning still running. The cold blast hits me when I get in, and I immediately feel the comfort that comes with it. A deep nostalgia creeps over me—it’s been years since I’ve been in the South in the summertime, and going from heat to air conditioning is one of the most intense, visceral memories of what it feels like to experience the hottest season in the most humid part of the country. In fact, I remember getting into a car with Wingate and Mack on more than one occasion, glasses fogged up, sweat accumulating on my back—and the only thing that would fix it was the immediate, stiff blast from a car’s powerful air conditioner.
“I’m afraid there’s no one to talk to about the weather, Miss Priss,” Wingate says as we start driving from the airport into Charlotte, leaving the plane where I spent the last half a day behind. “It just is what it is. And with global climate change, shit’s heating up in the Carolinas sooner and sooner each summer. And I don’t know if you heard, but there’re gators moving up this direction.”
“In Charlotte?” My pulse speeds up thinking about the gators we used to see down in South Carolina when I was a girl.
“Hell no. I’m messing with you. But it really could be soon that we see some gators up this way. There’s a damn global warming trend, and the government’s not doing a damn thing about it.”
“You’ve moved on from gay rights to global warming? I thought I’d never see the day, Wingate.” I laugh, remembering the civil rights club Wingate started in college. It was poorly attended at the time, but now I’m sure there are plenty of bearded young men and girls with purple hair trying to fight the power from the insular world of their college campus.
“I was in Raleigh protesting the house bill last week. So don’t mock me, Missy. I’m just as gay as I ever was. But now I can get married. It takes most of the fun out of protesting when they finally give you one of the rights you were looking for.” He gives me a sly grin but keeps driving down the freeway out toward Mack’s farmland mansion. I swallow a bit of anxiety thinking about driving towards the man I’ve been avoiding for so long.
I snort, thinking back to the last time I looked up Mack and Wingate’s net worth. “You’re the oddest hippie I’ve ever known—you sure know how to make money for your cousin, wheeling and dealing with all these sports professionals and NFL teams.”
“Only because I cheated off of you in every business class we took together, Ren. I sure have missed you. It’s quiet without you around sometimes. Mack’s throwing parties all the time—so it’s not quiet in the realest sense of the word. But bone quiet, like there’s not a real friendly voice around. Everyone who wants to get to know Mack—or me, for that matter—either wants to get a handout or sleep with him. Or both. Even my ex-boyfriend was with me because he wanted to sleep with Mack.”
Wingate shrugs like it was no big deal, but I can hear the loneliness in his voice. His sense of humor, though, that’s still intact—as self-deprecating as it ever was. I remember how he made me laugh when we were growing up, and I remember how much he pushed through the pain of being different, how he convinced me to pursue a business major even though I was just a poor black girl to everyone else in town. I remember too how he convinced Mack to go out for the pros, even though he was an
unknown name from an unknown town, even though the house Mack grew up in was more shack than a house. There wasn’t even insulation in the walls.
What a trio we were. Everyone made fun of us because we were the poorest outcasts in town. I’d bet they’re still all there, trying to relive their high school glory days.
“It’s good to hear your voice too, Wingate. It’s been—what?—four years since we talked?” The words almost refuse to come out of my mouth. When they come out, they’re soft and hesitant.
“Yeah, four years. It’s about time we got the band back together.” Wingate taps his fingers against the steering wheel and picks up speed as we leave the city behind us.
My heart nearly stops, and I hope what he just said was more metaphor than planned reality. “I can’t work directly with Mack. That’s not the way this is going to work. There’s no getting the three of us back together. The only person I’ll share a meal with is you. And you know why.”
“Oh, I know. I know. It’s just nice to have you around is all. Mack’s not as nice as he used to be. Maybe if he knows you’re out in the guest house he’ll be better behaved. That’s one thing that might happen—if he knows you’re calling the shots, he could be more...receptive to feedback.”
I watch as the deep green pines and deciduous trees roll by, surrounded by farmland on either side of the highway. That’s one thing that California is missing—the endless forests of green on either side of every road. As we get closer to Mack’s estate, I guide my conversation with Wingate back to safer topics—old friends and long-ago drama from college, the estate that they live on, and the house that Wingate had commissioned just down the road. It feels good to fall back into stride with a man who used to be one of my closest friends, a man who helped inspire the woman I’d become. I’d missed this, and I didn’t even know I was missing it. By the time we pull into the long white driveway, there’s far less anxiety about Mack circling in my head. I’m beginning to think I’ll be able to actually accomplish my mission here...that is until I see the house.