Page 1 of Caught off Guard

WHO DIS?

I would rather run long-distance,barefoot in a briar patch than wade through the throngs of people at a nightclub. Yet here I was at 10:30 p.m., on a Wednesday, walking through Atlanta’s Club Ecstasy with my loyal bodyguard, Luther Brown. On my wedding anniversary no less. Cece and I should be celebrating together at home with our kids—the ones we might have had if she wasn’t dead.

I frowned at that thought as I moved deeper into the two-story establishment. Despite being relatively old, the club boasted freshly painted walls and modern furnishings thatreminded me of West Elm, one of my interior designer’s favorite stores.

The club’s owners, a couple of my former Atlanta Torch teammates, with discriminating tastes and a keen eye for business, opened Ecstasy after they retired from the league. Both Trent Wiggins and Faison Samuels were role models to many of us active players looking for ways to sustain our lavish lifestyles after we left too.

I sucked in my breath and held it as a sudden influx of skunk-scented weed burned the back of my throat. It took me back to my childhood in south central New Jersey where my favorite uncle snuck out to smoke Skunk #1, a pungent strain of weed, every time he visited my family. That stench, mingled with the overpowering scent of expensive women’s perfume and fried food, had me on sensory overload. To get a reprieve, I covered my nose with the back of my hand as I veered deeper into the club.

Although it felt odd to be outside my house in an unstructured social setting during basketball season, I pushed aside my discomfort and trailed closely behind Luther’s bulky frame.

“You good, Boss?” His upturned eyes met mine as he paused and looked back at me.

I nodded and waved my hand for him to proceed through the crowd blocking our path.

Luther had been with me so long that I read the concern in his eyes like an open book. He knew I wasn’t comfortable being in such a congested place. Since he was a worrywart by nature, I gave him a thumbs-up each time he glanced my way. He faced forward and resumed his trek, raising his thick arms like a school crossing guard to clear a path before me. I adjusted my long steps to his short ones.

As we slowly passed medium-sized semi-circular banquettes, I homed in on tables full of people laughing and smiling as if they wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world in the middle of the week.

“Cairo!” Several voices called out to me as I passed.

The purplish-blue lights of the club were so dim I couldn’t trace the source of each voice fast enough. That wasn’t a problem, though, since I engaged in one-on-one media training sessions with some of the best PR professionals in the country. Over the past twenty years, the league’s media team also taught me how to put on a mask of kindness with fans from all walks of life who thought they knew the real me after reading my Wikipedia page and following the social media accounts my assistant managed.

I perfected my public persona and mannerisms so well that many of my buddies called me Denzel, after the actor Denzel Washington. As if a camera was in my face on the red carpet, I widened my eyes more than usual and gave a half-open, not-too-toothy grin in the general direction of the salutations. I even winked at several fans who stared at me as if I was the superstar they imagined me to be. When I locked eyes with random people who returned my smile, I lifted my hand to the height of my chest and offered them a courteous wave—not too enthusiastic and not too long.

At one of the booths where I dapped a guy who almost fell out of his seat to reach me, several overexuberant ladies pulled their camera phones from their purses and pointed them my way. I paused and gave them a peace sign as they snapped away. They lowered their devices and gushed over their snapshots, beaming back at me as if they couldn’t believe I was real.

“Hello.” I moved on, mouthing the word repeatedly as more people turned in their seats to watch me approach and then pass by their tables.

Like a robotic head on a mechanical doll, I rotated my head back and forth, giving everyone access to my best angles. With each smile, I let people know I saw them and appreciated their support of the Cairo Kinney brand.

I didn’t raise my voice or linger too long since no one could hear me over the obnoxious thump of Kendrick Lamar’s “Not Like Us.” The music didn’t drown out the shouts of a chocolate sister with dark brown locs.

“Ooh…he’s finer than a mother. Look at them pretty ass teeth. I bet he licks cooch good too.” She laughed like a hyena and spoke to her friend with bulging eyes locked on me.

She shimmied and wagged her pierced tongue in my direction as if she could lick up a brother’s shaft and down the other like a pro.

Damn ho.

I gave her my fake laugh as if her words and actions were appropriate. She smiled as she bit her ruby-red lips. When she lowered her big brown eyes to the front of my pants, I diverted my eyes so she wouldn’t see my disgust at her ‘I’m going to check your dick print’ look. Fortunately, my long Gucci shirt covered up the object of her attention.

As more women ogled me and vied for my attention with their longing looks, regret that I wasn’t engaging in ‘me time’ overtook me. I wished I was alone in my man cave, drinking an ice-cold Corona and watching one of the streaming matchmaking reality shows that had become my guilty pleasure. For some reason, strangers who fell in love faster than a teenage boy nutting for the first time amused me.

I also wanted to be home to hide out from the women who were thirstier than a parched dog. They pounced on me like I was desperate for their companionship. I guessed that many of them saw me as a conquest—as if they were the Cinderella whocould win my broken heart. Because of that, I was on guard at all times. And it exhausted me.

But scenes like this are the price you pay for being one of the best basketball players of all time.The people made you who you are, so they own a piece of you. It comes with the territory. You have to play the game to stay in the game.

Mental reminders like that kept me going and focused on a journey where less than 0.1% of high school basketball players made it to the pros. I was blessed, and I wouldn’t allow my personal preferences to mess up my present and my future.

“Excuse me, baby.” A twenty-something-year-old petite woman interrupted my thoughts as she popped out of a booth and poked her orange-sized breasts against my stomach.

I tried to shield myself from her with my hands, but not before she reached behind me and grabbed my butt. Luther reached for her waist to push her away from me. The rust-colored translucent fabric of her dress brushed against his arm lewdly.

“No touching.” Luther gently placed her back in her seat as I glided past them. When I was out of her reach, I frowned and stared her directly in the eyes. She lowered her eyes for a second, then lifted them boldly.

“Sorry, Cairo,” she shouted. “It’s so tight in here.” She cocked her head and twirled her long weave between her fingers.

Another woman at the table batted her spider-like eyelashes at me so rapidly that I thought they might get stuck. She looked as if she wanted to climb me like I was her stripper pole. Instead of causing trouble, I plastered a fake smile on my face as if they hadn’t violated my personal space.

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