Love In the Red Zone (Connecticut Kings Book 1) Page 2

  Shontel had still been committed to him. Tanya, baby’s mother number three, was still hoping to be his number one lady. I wasn’t interested at all. I’d been hurt by Ryshon too many times, and quite frankly, I’d outgrown him like baby’s momma number one, LaKisa. She was older than me, and had her own house and car in Bloomfield. She was with Ryshon in high school. And while he had a penchant for running the streets, she eventually submitted to the natural progression of life and got a good job that afforded her independence from the madness.

  I sighed, as my eyes roved around the dark room, questioning how I ended up here. Hearing Kyree’s grunting cry broke me out of it. I snapped my book closed and tossed it to the side.

  “Come here, Kyree.”

  In seconds, he leaped off the couch across from me and took big lunges until he made it to my sofa. I immediately cradled him in my arms, shushing as I rocked him.

  To fight back my own tears, I reminded myself of the current sparseness of the place. I’d packed up the apartment weeks ago, knowing I had little time left before something happened. Either we’d get the Section 8 or get put out. I hoped I could dodge yet another bullet and get out first. Life had never cut this close for me.

  “Your sorry ass still coming around, huhn?” he breathed out shallowly from his chest.

  I smirked, stretched my legs on the chair next to the hospital bed as I chuckled. He’d awakened. It relieved me he still had his mind. His appearance? Well, I knew to be grateful for the former. He’d been stretching this out for twenty years, according to him. But ol’ Shank was still here.

  “Yeah. Well, I wouldn’t be running down here if yo’ attention-seeking ass would take care of yourself,” I muttered, only partially looking at him.

  He lay so tiny and fragile in the mechanical bed. Tubes and wires running all across, in and out of him, he was unrecognizable since the last I saw him. And even then, he was a distorted version of his normal self. It was as though he’d aged twenty-five years in the past two.

  Things grew quiet, and that gave me the opportunity to silently send up a prayer of gratitude to the Man upstairs. In my regular prayers, I’d included Shank. He’d meant so much coming up. I couldn’t speak out loud how much his sickness had weighed on me all this time. I loved him like I had very few. He’d invested so much in me from back when I was Trenton Bailey, a number amongst many in the Camden city school district and sports leagues. He made sure I was an identifiable source of power on the field when I was in Pop Warner ball. He saw things in me no one had ever spoken. Put his money where his mouth was when I couldn’t afford to pay for my talent. He only stopped when my talent paid for itself, and had never asked for anything in return but to be great. He demanded that shit.

  What he didn’t know was I’d been here for close to two hours, waiting on him to come out of the sleep fog from the meds they had him on to relax him. This was a tough visit; this trip to the I.C.U.

  “It’s this damn tuberculosis, man,” he spoke with little breath.

  I nodded. “Yeah, pulmonary. Trying to take you over, G.”

  “That and this damn hepatitis C that won’t shake the hell off,” he spoke with ghosted eyes and lazy lungs.

  “Yup, and your CD4 was about 260 when they admitted you.” I nodded again, my eyes out into the corner where the television hung suspended. These were secondary infections; complications of his primary condition. I’d learned a lot about HIV and AIDS in the past five years. As I was knee-deep in my trial, my uncle announced his diagnosis to our family and his friends. It was after a near death trip to the hospital. He’d told me years before in confidence. He’d only told them when he thought he wouldn’t make it. “April filled me in last night when you were admitted. I tried coming then but was too late. They’d cut visitation time.”

  My eyes were trained ahead. Shank told me years ago when he’d revealed his status to never pity him. To never make him appear helpless or weak when the disease kicked his ass—because he knew it would one day. No one would have ever predicted this demise for Shank Daddy, the original Mr. Steal Your Girl. He was a regionally renowned stripper, getting his start at a local Camden club. In fact, lots of my relatives stripped, including my uncle, Trey, and three of my older cousins. They all followed behind Shank here, the oldest.

  He made top bank, stripping since he was sixteen. He said he was a member of a traveling dance troupe, and later learned he had a cut enough body for stripping, so he put the two activities together once the group dismantled and made a career out of being a male exotic dancer. He sure had the pretty boy features for it. All of the ladies lined up at his events and his home, afterhours, wanting more. Their men envied and respected him. Even the hustlers wanted to be like Shank. They’d provide protection because they knew the women and local celebrity followed him.

  Shank heavily indulged in women, but he’d maintained a narrow focus back then. He worked and saved up for five years to buy his mother, my grandmother, a house of her own. This was no easy feat either. We ate like “the help” when this dude, Shank, brought in two to three grand a night. He never celebrated over the top. Always banked his earnings and lived beneath his means. It frustrated everyone around, but at the end of the day became the model I lived by when I got signed to the league. It saved my ass big time—millions, including my current home.

  “You still quiet up North,” he changed the subject.

  “Still focused. Still chill.”

  “And the league?”

  “Crickets.” I took in a hefty breath as I sat up in my seat, eyes still glued above. “But I’m good. I’m blessed. I’m keeping my mind. Keeping busy.”

  “Keeping busy doing what?” His panting tone had none of its usual bass to it.

  He probably shouldn’t have been speaking at all. I was told April went home to shower. I’d bet if she were here, she’d tell him to keep quiet and rest. For him, that was impossible when I came through.

  “Volunteering with a Pop Warner team.” I scoffed. The sound alone seemed strange, but I enjoyed it, especially seeing the unfolding talent I’d peeped so far. “Little league… Mitey-Mites.”

  I chuckled quietly at my checked ego.

  Yeah… The big leaguer meets little league.

  “Oh, yeah?” He breathed shallowly from his diaphragm…more like panted. “I remember your time in that division. The tiniest thing out there with the most focus.”

  Yeah, but not the most talent. That was Trick.

  I glanced down at my watch. Only a few minutes until I needed to hit the road for practice.

  “I’m surprised it ain’t blasted all over the news. Wouldn’t be though. They only blast negativity ‘bout you.”

  He was referring to my charges, trial, conviction, and imprisonment.

  “They can’t blast what they don’t know. I’m not an official coach. I’m just out there working with them.”

  I wore hoodies on some days, skully caps on others. I’d even grown a beard to cover my identity. These kids were so small, they had no idea. Their parents, on the other hand, were an altogether different matter. I stayed away from the crowds, kept my head down, giving very little eye contact. The few who knew were respectful of my privacy after the coaches spoke with them.

  “You heard from your grams?”

  “I stopped by to see her before I came here. She talking about Trick coming home soon.”

  “Yeah,” he panted. “Two months. I’m…hoping…”

  I swallowed hard, eyes fell right away.

  “It’s been what…ten years?”

  “Ten the hard way, man,” he panted, pitch the note of a soprano most times now.

  I nodded. It was that time.

  “I only wanted the best for you guys, man. You, Trick, and Trey.”

  Trey was his younger brother, the one underneath him while Trick was the baby. Trey died in a car accident when I was in high school. Coincidentally, Trick and I were the same age. Weird for uncle and nephew dynamics, but true. As I ab
sorbed Shank’s claim, I didn’t say, but I knew it. I’d paid for it. It was at the expense of my relationship with Trick. For him, my relationship with Shank resembled too closely what his should have been with his older brother. I never understood it myself, but coming up as a youngin’, Shank tended to me more than an uncle should. It was as close to the father I never had. It confused me at times and angered Trick all the time.

  The door opened and in came a full figured woman, no more than five foot four. I remember the first time I met her, she had the most desired hourglass shape around. Over the past fifteen years, she’d inflated. Grew three times the size I’d met her at. But April was still fine in her own right. She rocked a golden tapered cut, just an inch from her scalp. It was curled and styled into a Mohawk. This was different for her, but I liked it. Her cinnamon eyes still sparkled when they saw me, always had.

  “Trent!” She smiled on a contented breath. I stood to greet her. “You made it.”

  We met each other in a tight embrace. She smelled good like always.

  “Yeah. They told me you just left to go and shower.” I tucked my hands in my pockets halfway. “This dude obviously sensed you coming. He just woke up.”

  She laughed, waving off my soft flirtatious compliment. April had been used to it. Shank made sure we all spoiled her like a queen from the moment he finally got his shit together and married her. Yup. He’d married her knowing his HIV status. She knew, too, and was still down for the matrimony—eager, in fact. I never understood it, but always respected it. Their love and commitment had always spoke volumes to me. It was a gift and a curse. April’s dedication to my uncle taught me women were riders and needed. It also gave me x-ray vision on the thousands of groupies I’d encountered from the beginning of my career. Real women were built like April. Those types weren’t being produced anymore, even my uncle agreed.

  “How you making out, Trent? Everythang alright?” she asked.

  “I’m surviving. We’re days from fall. New season, you know.”

  “Good, Trent.” She smiled again as she made it to the other side of the bed and kissed Shank on the forehead. She whispered to him, “You good, baby? You need something to eat?”

  Shank breathed, “Yeah. Not hungry though.”

  There was a comfort level he had with her at the most difficult time of his life. Theirs was a love that was rare. I’d never seen anything like it before. I knew Shank. He was a wild boy in his day. Women around the way still asked about him when I would visit my hometown. He was like a legend of sorts. Yet, April didn’t focus on that. She held him down as though he was a saint.

  “I’mma hit this road. I got practice tonight. Hope I don’t run into traffic.” I grabbed Shank’s cold and feeble hand at my announcement.

  “Okay, baby. I don’t know if your granny told you, but we meeting up to plan a party for when Trick gets out,” April spoke while wiping down Shanks head. “You should come through to one of the meetings.”

  “Good to know,” was how I decided to respond.

  My family attempted a welcome home party for me when I got released. I had them stop those plans before they got hot and started. Trick was a different matter. I simply didn’t want to get involved knowing the bad blood between us. I only wanted to focus on positive things. It’s all I had to keep my head.

  At the door, I tossed over my shoulder, “Aye, you listen to those CDs?”

  “Open the drawer, honey,” he panted over to April.

  She turned behind her and pulled out a CD player with headphones. He had been listening. I’d been purchasing my pastor’s sermons and dropping them off, down to my uncle here. It was a method of ministering to him. I valued his soul and wanted to see him on the other side. I also struggled with being a nagging Christian, not wanting to turn him off. Seemed here he was open to the teachings of Christ. My pastor had a way of teaching with sophistication and simplicity. I knew Shank would be captivated.

  “Hot dogs, rice, and ketchup all the way,” Shank squealed. It was his way of yelling.

  It was our parting slogan because it’s what we ate for years until he bought my grandmother that house and finally splurged on good living and better meals.

  I gave a final words. “Blowing in the winds of Macen Beach, baby.”

  That was my response, a reminder of a promise I made him regarding his final resting place. I nodded, staring him directly in the eye before slipping out.

  “He got it! He got it!” Jason shouted and jumped down the field as Kyree raced down to the end zone with the ball. “Yes!” he wailed, excitement bursting from his belly.

  I smiled with an odd pride never before felt. That moody tike scored again for his team, closing the game. I stood on the sideline with my brim low and arms crossed, watching everyone cheer—some too hard for the kids on the team to be so young. To be real, it was a proud moment for me, and not particularly for the team’s win. At this stage, they just needed to understand the game and how to have heart on the field. My pride was in Kyree, demonstrating every play we’d taught him and having seen him execute with the depths of his heart. He may have been young, but there was something about his focus and determination that surpassed even the older kids on his team. There was also something up with his mood swings that I couldn’t grasp to understand. What was even more strange was that I cared.

  After closing words with the coaches, I passed Kyree and his moms on my way to my pickup. Apparently, no one else came out to support him tonight. I actually had never seen anyone out here but her, and she stayed in the car during practices. This was my first time seeing her on her feet, away from her car. She was tiny. Like…really tiny. She could be no more than five feet. Kyree came just below her breast line. She wore fitted jeans and a tee, and had her hair pushed back in a long ponytail with a baseball cap tenting her face. I noticed she had a small frame with a rounded peach in the back. I watched as she helped him out of his cleats. I didn’t realize he’d been watching me.

  “What up, coach!” I recognized the arrogant call from his win.

  It was called spitting shit. When you’re great on the field or court and had just experienced a “W,” your ego expanded because your win demonstrated defeat against some form of adversity, whether it be defying human physics with a move or a simple naysayer. Every athletic warrior had a leveling agent that worked to prove he or she could be victorious in the game. We all had it. It was just a surprise that Kyree developed one so soon.

  “You, kid. Good job out there today.” I smiled genuinely. “Bring that focus to practice this week.”

  “Stand still, KyKy!” I heard his mother fuss, down at his feet. “You ain’t getting this dirt in my car!”

  He appeared unfazed, sporting a goofy smile. “Okay!” he shouted in return. “Mom!” he finally acknowledged her. “I was talking to coach. I know he happy I ain’t get in no trouble today.”

  Silently chuckling at his ecstatic mood, I continued to the back of the lot.

  “You mean, you’re happy youdidn’t get into trouble today…” she went on to scold him.

  I didn’t hear much after I advanced further into the parking lot. There was a drove of new arrivals coming on the field for the next set of games. I pulled my brim lower and even tossed my hood over my head. It was early afternoon on a Saturday and I didn’t want to risk it. Anxiety always struck at times like this when I was amongst a crowd. I ducked my head and kept my stride.

  “Hey!” I heard a determined feminine voice behind. “Did you hear me? Excuse me.”

  For some reason, I stopped. It was odd because other than the male coaches and kids on the team, I knew no one at these games. I turned and saw Kyree’s moms standing with her hand tenting her eyes, the other on her hip. People stopped, looking for the commotion. My neck dropped into my damn spine, trying not to stick out. It didn’t matter; I was still taller than all around. Can’t hide six feet, five inches.

  Damn…

  I gave her a chin reversal, acknowledging her
from several yards away.

  “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 my 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.