“Any of this,” Jameson answered. “No sulking, no poking, no accusing, no isolation. And never call me an Albatross.” He crept closer to Ford’s ear and whispered. “Remember that we’re a team. You got that?”

  Ford withdrew and turned around to face Jameson. “Is that what you call this? It’s more like Jameson and his cast of supporting actors—many of whom deserve a lead role far more than the man who gets top billing. You may have hit the game-winning shot tonight, but anybody with a basketball IQ of four would know that you nearly cost us the game in regulation and got lucky in overtime. I’m happy we won, but sad that it masks just how much of a detriment you really are to this team.”

  Ford pushed his way past Jameson and headed for the showers.

  Jameson spun around to see the entire team staring at him. It was yet another moment when Ford undermined his leadership on the team. Jameson felt the blood racing to his face. He needed to get out of there to cool down before he did something he regretted.

  ***

  AN HOUR LATER, Jameson sat across from KJ, who managed to wrangle two extra scoops out of his dad for a triple-decker ice cream treat.

  “That was just amazing, Dad,” KJ said. He paused only to lick around the edges of the cone or take another bite. “You’re going to make ESPN’s top ten plays tonight—I just know it.”

  Jameson forced a smile as his altercation with Ford still weighed heavily on him. “You never know.”

  “I know for sure,” KJ said. “Just like you knew you were going to win tonight.”

  “Nothing’s certain in life, son, but we can’t do anything but put ourselves in the best position to succeed.”

  “You’re too humble, Dad,” KJ said as he waved off his father. “You knew you were going to win the whole time, didn’t you?”

  Nodding, Jameson stared at his son. KJ delved into what his next day at school would entail with all the guys talking about his dad’s awesome shot, but Jameson drifted off. He gave occasional cues to his son that he was listening, but he was thinking about how much he loved his son—and how he was the only reason he and Tonya were still together. His wife of ten years, Jameson couldn’t believed she’d stuck around that long. But KJ forged a bond that seemed virtually unbreakable, though Jameson knew the moment he walked out the door to be on his own, he’d likely never see Tonya again.

  KJ continued to rave about his father’s prowess on the court but Jameson struggled to engage. He looked at a tabloid lying on the table next to them with an article on the front page about Tonya and DJ O.T.U.S., the most successful hip-hop artist to come out of D.C. since DJ Kool. Jameson cringed as he snatched the paper and flipped it over. He didn’t want his son to know that his mother had a reputation for hanging out with other men behind his back. It wasn’t like she cared though. She liked to get her picture in the tabloids, especially with people whose fame wasn’t on the decline.

  He knew when he married her that she was a fame hound, trying to score more than fifteen minutes by hitching herself to a superstar athlete. Everyone warned him, but he didn’t listen. And here he was, stuck in a loveless marriage. Stuck only because he held deep convictions about marriage and divorce. He wasn’t about to abandon his morals like many of his peers just because he could get any woman he wanted. Heaven knows plenty of women had thrown themselves at him, though he held fast to his principles. He wasn’t interested in taking the easy way out with divorce, even though not a soul would’ve blamed since he was married to a woman like Tonya. But he was stuck for another reason—KJ He’d watched firsthand what so many of his friends experienced when they went through divorce. And he wasn’t about to relegate the most formative years of his son’s life to weekend visits during the offseason.

  KJ crunched on the last piece of the waffle cone and grinned as chocolate ice cream leaked from both corners of his mouth.

  Jameson stood up. “We better get going before your Mom gives me an earful about keeping you out so late and feeding you ice cream before bedtime.”

  KJ laughed and then hugged him. “Thanks. You’re the best dad ever.”

  ***

  JAMESON KNEW HIS WIFE all too well. The moment KJ slipped into his room to get ready for bed, Tonya became unhinged toward her husband. With arms flailing and fingers wagging, she explained to him what a delinquent father he was for staying out so late with KJ

  “He’s got school tomorrow,” she said. “Couldn’t you have waited another day to celebrate over ice cream? He’s got a big test tomorrow and I doubt he’s going to do all that well on it now. He’ll be tired and cranky. And you don’t have to deal with him in the morning like I do.” She sighed and put her hands on her hips. “I just can’t believe how incredibly selfish you are sometimes.”

  She followed it up with a string of expletives. Then she turned and disappeared down the hall.

  He couldn’t believe what a hypocrite she was. He glanced toward the corner of the room where their regular babysitter sat. She gave him a half-hearted wave. Jameson knew the reason she was there: Tonya was going out tonight, too—again. She could’ve put him in bed herself or taken him home early, but she was out partying with her friends. And she wasn’t done for the night apparently.

  Jameson meandered back to KJ’s room and found him climbing into bed. He knelt down beside the bed and joined him for good-night prayers. Then Jameson kissed him and tucked him in before heading for the door.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, Son.”

  “Are the Wizards gonna win a championship this year?”

  “Now, that’s a question I can’t answer.”

  “Why not? You were right about tonight.”

  “Who knows what can happen between now and then, Son. If we do our best, who knows. Maybe we just might do it.”

  “I hope so. You’re the best. You deserve to win one.”

  Jameson smiled again. “Thanks, Son. Sweet dreams.” He flipped off the light switch and left the room.

  ***

  LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, Jameson handed over his keys to a valet in the parking lot of Torque, the most popular—and elite—nightclub in the nation’s capital. His phone buzzed and he glanced down at the screen. It was Tonya with a text message wanting to know where he was.

  Anywhere you aren’t.

  He ignored the message and slid his phone back into his pocket.

  He didn’t go out often after games, but hitting the game-winning shot motivated him to get dressed to the nines and soak in some adulation from the forgiving public. He won over the fans’ hearts three years ago when he made a shot over the Celtic’s Kevin Garnett in the deciding game of a playoff series. But since then? He might as well be the scourge of D.C. And given the fact that the city teemed with politicians and lobbyists, to sink to the dregs meant he had to fail almost daily.

  But not tonight. He’d be toasted at the bar, slapped on the back, and fans would reminisce over some of his biggest moments from that night’s game—and his career. And he needed some praise, any praise. He needed to get out and breathe and escape his wretched sham of a marriage, even if it was only for a night.

  As predicted, Jameson received a warm welcome by the club’s upscale patrons. In less than an hour, no less than half-a-dozen people had bought him shots. He’d also received two propositions, from a blonde and a brunette. And he signed at least ten napkins and posed for twice as many pictures.

  Tired from all the glad-handing, he slid onto a barstool and hunched over as he nursed his latest glass of scotch.

  “Rough night?” the man next to him asked.

  Jameson looked up at the man and furrowed his brow. Everyone knew who he was. Everyone. But this man was pretending to not know or was a D.C. sports illiterate, an oddity but not completely uncommon. Jameson relished the opportunity to have a normal conversation with someone that didn’t involve discussing all his dirty laundry, which had been aired through the tabloids, or his latest stat line. Just two men talking about life.

  Jameson nodded and looked back down at his glass. “Professionally, I had a great night. Personally, it was mixed.”

  The man ordered two more drinks and shoved one of them in front of Jameson, despite Jameson’s initial refusal.

  “I insist, Mr.—”

  “Jameson.”

  The man stopped. “Mr. Kelvin Jameson? The basketball player?”

  Jameson rubbed his face with his hands. Then he shook his head and forced a smile. “That’s me.”

  “My kid’s a big fan of yours,” the man said. “Up until this past summer, he had a poster of you shooting over Kevin Garnett in the playoffs.”

  Jameson laughed. “So, what happened to it?”

  “He took it down. He’s into soccer now. I can’t even pronounce the name of the guy on the poster tacked to his wall now.”

  “Fame is fleeting.” Jameson started to cough and pounded his chest to get down the alcohol.

  “Are you okay?” the man asked.

  Jameson closed his eyes and glanced around the room, which felt like it was spinning. “I don’t know. I feel weird all of a sudden.”

  The man stood up and grabbed Jameson’s arm and put it around him. “Let me help you. I’m a doctor.”

  Jameson forced a smile and looked at the man as they shuffled toward the door. “Good thing I met you when I did.”

  Despite feeling dizzy and weak, Jameson felt as if he was in control of his mental faculties, a fact he recognized when the man tried to steer him toward a back alley exit. “Why are we going this way?”

  With quick glances over his shoulder, the man hobbled fast as he helped Jameson. “You don’t want all your adoring fans to see you this way, do you? You wouldn’t want a video to leak onto social media of Kelvin Jameson, superstar basketball player stumbling drunk out of Torque, now would you?”

  Jameson shook his head. The man’s reasoning made sense to him, even if the sudden onset of his condition didn’t. The last thing he wanted was to be perceived as a fool—or a drunk.

  The door to the alley swung open and a stark white van was parked outside running. Another man opened the door and helped get Jameson inside.

  “Wait? Where are we going?” Jameson asked.

  The man slid into the seat next to Jameson and proceeded to pat him on his knee. “We’re going to cure what ails you.”

  ***

  JAMESON SQUINTED AT THE LIGHT flooding his eyes. He glanced around the room, hoping his eyes adjusted quickly. As everything came into focus, the details of the last hour grew blurrier.

  Where am I? Who are these girls next to me? What happened?

  Then a pause.

  Why do I feel like my heart’s about to explode?

  It was the last thing Jameson ever thought—or felt.

  CHAPTER 2

  CAL MURPHY ENJOYED THE RHYTHM of his long strokes through the Olympic distance pool. He churned through fifty meters of water before flipping around and shoving off the wall with his legs on his way to conquer fifty more. While most of his sports writer peers would never hesitate in choosing between a freshly baked doughnut and thirty minutes of lap time at the YMCA pool, most of them had never experienced what he had since he entered journalism. He was running out of fingers to keep track of all the times he’d been thrust into situations that required a bigger and faster version of himself. He hated relying on others to save him when he inevitably would test his journalistic bounds. He knew one day it might cost him something if he wasn’t prepared.

  As he neared the wall, he glanced upward to see a familiar figure casting a flickering shadow on the water.

  Cal stopped short of flipping around underneath the water and grabbed onto the wall with one hand. With the other hand, he raked water off his face. He blew out the water that had seeped into his mouth before staring agape at his visitor.

  “Fred Parker, what in the world do I owe this honor to?” Cal said.

  Parker, a former NFL lineman and popular sports radio personality, held out a towel for Cal. “I brought this for you.”

  Cal slapped Parker on the leg. “How sweet, but I’ve still got another ten minutes left in my workout.”

  Parker didn’t move. “You’re gonna want to get out when I break a little piece of news to you.”

  Cal froze. “Oh, what’s that?”

  “Kelvin Jameson is dead.”

  Cal placed both hands on the starting block in front of him and pulled himself out of the water. He grabbed the towel from Parker and began drying off. “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” Parker said before he paused. “Maybe that was a poor choice of words.”

  “He had a heart attack?”

  Parker shook his head. “The police aren’t saying anything officially yet, but I’ve got a source who says it was a heart attack more or less.”

  “More or less?”

  “More like it was induced from a drug overdose.”

  Cal stared slack-jawed at Parker. “This is Len Bias all over again. A drug overdose? Jameson? I never would’ve guessed he was into anything like that. He seemed like a good guy.”

  Parker chuckled. “He was. But I’ve seen plenty of good guys ruined by the trappings of fame.”

  “That’s just crazy,” Cal said. “I talked to him last night after the game for a story I wrote. That was the happiest I’d seen him after a game in a long time. I even watched him leave with his son and heard them talking about getting ice cream or something like that.”

  “The cleaning lady found him with two prostitutes passed out on top of him fully clothed.”

  Cal rubbed his head with his towel. “If that doesn’t make the police suspicious, I don’t know what will.”

  “I doubt there’s going to be some big investigation. All the evidence points to a simple drug overdose.”

  “I assume they’re doing an autopsy, right?”

  Parker nodded. “We won’t know anything for a few days, but it sounds pretty cut and dry—at least from the cops’ perspective.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I knew Kelvin for a long time—and it certainly seems out of character for him. But I’ve also seen plenty of players do uncharacteristic things when the pressure is on.”

  “Pressure? He had to know he wasn’t going to get another contract after this one ran out two years from now. What kind of pressure could make him do something like that?”

  “It’s not always about the contract, Cal. He had a lot of trouble at home, too.”

  “But enough to make him start partying like a crazy man?”

  “You never know.”

  Cal cocked his head and smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I think you might be coaxing me to look into this further.”

  The corners of Parker’s mouth turned upward. “It’d be a shame for one of the city’s great basketball players to die of a drug overdose yet the sharpest investigative sports journalist on our team takes the police report at face value.”

  Cal put his hands on his hips and squinted at Parker. “Now that your motives have been laid bare, wanna help me?”

  Parker shook his head. “Not really. But I’d love to have you as a guest on my show again once you write another award-winning piece that identifies exactly what happened.”

  Cal offered his right hand and Parker grabbed it. “Deal,” Cal said. He then turned around and jumped back into the water.

  “What are you doing?” Parker asked.

  Cal positioned himself against the wall and looked back over his shoulder at Parker. “I’ve got ten more minutes to work—and then who knows when I’ll get another chance to do this.”

  ***

  CAL DROVE to the office and contemplated how he should approach Washington Times sports editor Marcus Hale about the story. Cal moved his family to D.C. from Charlotte a year and a half ago. He craved more assignments of an investigative nature—and when offered a job in the nation’s capital, he couldn’t imagine a place more rife with conspiracies. And up until now, it had been a relative disappointment.

  Puff pieces on the Nationals and their green stadium initiative, features about senators and their sons and their shared love for baseball, analysis on Stephen Strasburg’s fastball. Nothing that was going to win him awards. Nothing that excited him about getting up in the morning.

  But the Wizards’ star basketball player found dead in a hotel room?

  This was the stuff he longed for. He doubted it would take much to convince Hale to turn him loose on the story.

  He was wrong.

  An hour later, Cal sat in Hale’s office pleading his case and regurgitating the sketchy facts Fred Parker had fed him earlier that morning. It was nothing Cal would ever print without verifying and fact checking everything, but this wasn’t a story—this was selling Hale on the idea that a better story might exist. And since Cal was filling in on the Wizards’ beat for the backup beat writer Jared Arbuckle, who was vacationing for a couple of weeks, it seemed like a natural fit for the sports writer with the most investigative writing accolades in the newsroom. At least it seemed that way to Cal.

  “I don’t understand why you think we shouldn’t wait on the coroner’s report to verify what we’re already hearing,” Hale said as he leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “I don’t want to send you on a wild goose chase.”

  “By that point, we might be behind in the game,” Cal countered. “That is, if there’s anything else that comes out in the report.”

  “And what if nothing else comes out? What then?”

  “That’s when I become even more suspicious.”

  Hale laughed and picked up a baseball on the edge of his desk. He tossed it in the air and caught it, repeating the motion several times before finally speaking.

  “Okay, look into it, but keep it hush-hush. Your reputation has earned you at least that much. But just tell people you’re writing a piece on the life and times of Kelvin Jameson, something like that. I don’t want this getting out. Lord knows I don’t want anyone at city hall or at this paper making our lives miserable. Got it?”

 

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