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“Thank you. So… I’d like to know what went through your head when you realized a rookie had circumvented the choreographed play, and caused the fumble that ultimately cost the game.”
“Ah, man. Well… of course I didn’t know at the time what had actually happened, you know? I just knew something had gone very wrong. There were a lot of curse words. In a very short period of time.” I chuckled. “I couldn’t really dwell on it, though. I wasn’t actually close enough to do shi— to do anything about it. But I had to try, so my focus was getting down the field. Obviously, it still didn’t work out. Do I wish the end result had been different? Of course. But I can’t even hate on Buddy, he was out of there. Where’d they even get him from?”
The whole press pool erupted in laughter, but I was barely joking. A play like that was insane, especially for a relatively unknown player fresh off the draft.
The kid should have been a King.
Wil thanked me for my answer, and the turn went to another reporter, some smug-looking white boy I immediately knew was about to be on some bullshit, purely from his expression.
“Tate, what was it like facing off against Monty Rudolph while you two are beefing over his fiancé?”
My eyebrows went up. “We’re beefing? That’s news to me.”
“What do you think about his tweets from before the game this afternoon? He had a lot to say about the Kings, and I would say successfully, predicted today’s loss, which eliminates you all from the championship.”
“Ahh, he’s clairvoyant?” I chuckled. “I think that’s dope. He should have no problems carving out a career for himself post-retirement with a skill like that, good for him.”
“But—”
“Good for him,” I repeated, with a pointed smile.
He sat the fuck down.
A couple of others tried it though, as the interview moved on, and I just kept redirecting.
It was annoying to be asked about Monty over and over, but honestly, I was chuckling inside about it.
I’d really made that nigga this mad without even being in contact with Aurora since that stuff went down between us.
He should be glad I wasn’t interested in really turning shit up.
Once everything was done and we were finally released, I met up with my family. It was a rare occurrence to have all my siblings and my parents in the box, but this had been a major game. Obviously we’d hoped this was going to be a celebration, but fooling around with my family?
The energy was barely any different.
Wilders only mourned the dead.
Outside of that, we always found the pocket to cut up in.
Even when my parents called it a night, I ended up in the adjoining hotel suite with my siblings—eating, drinking, and… in what was probably not that great of an idea, hopping on a livestream on social media.
For the most part, it was all love.
Some of the fans were disappointed in the outcome of the game, but I knew I had done my big one for all four quarters, with stats to back it up. So none of the insults and shit a few of them, and some folks from other fandoms, tried landed with me.
I focused more on the encouragement from people who had critiques, but were optimistic about what next season would bring.
It was good vibes.
And then, somebody asked me about Monty.
I was gonna ignore the shit.
Needed to ignore it.
Should have ignored it.
I was just inebriated enough to be a bit loose at the tongue, but sober enough to know that, so I wasn’t about to walk myself into trouble. But between Timothy, Tamira, and Tremaine… there was only barely a limit to our need to cut up.