Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Anthony!” I shout, waking him up like I’m his crotchety parent. “Your friend is ready to leave!”
He groans and picks up a pen off his nightstand so he can throw it in my direction. It clatters against his doorframe before falling limply to the floor. “It’s the middle of the night!”
“Nice, yeah. Good manners, bud. It’s ten AM. Get up and help me clean this place.”
He refuses to comply, so I walk into his room and find his wallet on the TV console. I rip a couple hundred dollars out of it and head back out to the woman in the living room who’s now been joined by her friend who was in the bathroom.
“That’s for getting home,” I tell them. “Do you know the woman in the bed?” I ask, nodding back toward Anthony’s bedroom.
Before they can answer, the woman in question scurries past me, clutching her purse and shoes to her chest. At least they don’t seem like they’re going to linger. They’re already starting to head for the door.
“Hey! Come on, ladies,” Anthony protests. “We have all morning!”
“Don’t listen to him,” I argue. “He’s about to get up and help me clean this suite. You don’t want to stay for that.”
“Like hell I am! That’s why hotels have housekeepers!” Anthony protests, burying his head under his pillow.
He knows full well we aren’t leaving it looking like this. The housekeepers—who get paid shit all—shouldn’t be subjected to this. My mom used to clean houses, and she’d slap me on the back of the head if she saw the state of this place.
I shepherd the trio to the door, ensuring none of them get distracted on their way out of the palatial suite. We’re walking through the foyer where a five-foot flower arrangement sits in the center of a gaudy table when chandelier shoe girl turns back to me.
“Congratulations by the way. National champs.”
I nod. “Oh, yeah, thanks.”
The right side of her mouth lifts in a tentative smile. “Could we get a quick picture with you before we leave?”
What was left of my good mood vanishes.
“No.”
She shrugs, unfazed by my curt tone. “Right. Can’t blame me for trying.”
I’ve been in the game long enough to know not to take a picture with them. These women seem nice, but the last thing I need is one of them running their mouth on social media, spreading rumors about me and what activities I get up to off the court. I don’t invite jersey chasers into my life for a reason. Even without a picture, nothing’s stopping them from going to the press and talking about this encounter right now. Anthony’s going to get an earful as soon as I finish escorting them out. He’s five years younger than me and still green in so many ways. Maybe I’ll take after my mom and smack him upside the head.
Outside the suite, the women head toward the bank of private elevators, waving to me over their shoulders. Once those metal doors slide closed, I sigh in relief and I look down to the pile of newspapers waiting on top of the room’s welcome mat.
The Chicago Tribune sits on top.
CHAMPIONS AGAIN!
LA SWEEPS CHICAGO FOR FOURTH CONSECUTIVE TITLE
Underneath the headline, there’s a picture of me holding up the gold NBA Championship trophy with my teammates crowded around me, smiling big. Beside that photo is another image of me just as my three-point shot swooped through the net in the last second of the fourth quarter, clinching the game for Los Angeles.
“I’m up now,” Anthony says with a groan behind me. “You happy?”
I pick up the newspapers and carry them inside. He’ll want to take a look at them. This was his first title, hence why he went all out last night.
I slap them against his chest as I pass by, and he hurries to catch them before they slide to the floor.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” he quips, glancing down at the Tribune. “My face right on the front page. I mean, sure, from this angle you can only see half of me, but at least I’m smiling.” He crinkles the paper as he holds it up for me to see.
I heave a sigh as I throw myself down on the living room couch and drop my head back to look up at the ceiling. I’m more than exhausted; I’m bone-weary. I need a month off, but I’m not going to get it. I won’t even get a week. We’re due to start training for the Games in two days.
“Would it have killed you to look happy for the photos?” he prods.
“That is my happy face.”
He barks out a laugh as if that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
The shrill sound of the hotel’s phone ringing startles us both. I knew it would happen eventually; I can only stay off the grid for so long. I can silence my phone and turn it upside down, but my agent, my manager, my coach, my publicist, my good-for-nothing father—they’ll always find a way to reach me.