Page 2 of One Sweet Lie

“Bahahaha—” He was still laughing. “I still remember whenyouwere the number one draft pick. Do you ever long for the days when you played in the NBA?”

His words stabbed me in the chest, and I looked right through him.

Long ago, the Boston Celtics had drafted and promoted me as ‘the next Larry Bird,’ and my accomplishments during the first three seasons still held records.

But that chapter of my life was ripped out of my book without warning, just like everything else. After one too many injuries, I was forced to trade in my jersey for a three-piece business suit.

My former career was one of two topics I avoided discussing at all costs. That, and the “f”word.

Family.

“Do you still keep up with your old teammates?” he asked. “I watched a recent mini-doc where a couple of them spoke highly about your work ethic.”

“I saw that, too!” His CFO chimed in. “They said you never missed a training session, and you?—”

“Excuse me, please.” I moved past them, unable to listen anymore. “I need some fresh air.”

I weaved through the crowd, ignoring their “Was it something we said?” whispers until I reached the balcony.

The only people out herewere members of my staff, and they knew better than to bring up certain topics.

“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Dawson?” A server held out a tray of whiskey glasses.

“Yes, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He returned inside, and I stared at the site where they were set to renovate my new team’s arena.

As the crane lights blinked red, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I looked through the glass doors, spotting my top two team members engaged in conversation, so I ignored the call.

It sounded again.

Then again.

The screen showed me an unknown caller.

“I don’t know how you got this number,” I said, “but this better be a life-or-death situation.”

“Mr. Dawson, this is Detective Ryan Calvin with the Manhattan Police Department. I’m en route to your Park Avenue condo regarding an emergency.”

“What type of emergency?”

“I can’t discuss it over the phone.”

“Can you at least give me a hint?”

“No, but I wish I could, sir.” He paused. “How fast can you get home?”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

The scentof smoke sifted through the elevator doors as the car rose. When the doors glided open, soft grey puffs smacked me in the face.

Where the hell is the fire department?

Panicking, I pushed the doors open, hoping everything inside wasn’t burned to ash.

In the living room, faint smoke clouds drifted across my ceiling, and my eight-year-old niece Olivia rocked back and forth.

“Hey,Uncle Brooks.” She smiled, dragging out my middle name like she always did. “How was the charity party?”

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