Page 62 of Loving the Legend
Yesterday, I participated in a basketball exhibition game called the Fresh Stars Challenge. Twenty-eight players, a mix of rookies, sophomores, and players from the G-League, were selected to take part. We were drafted into four teams and coached by a mix of current and retired basketball players. The first to reach eighty points, my team won. I averaged a rookie-best of eighteen points and was crowned MVP. Today, I participated in the Skillz Challenge competition to test ball-handling, passing, and shooting ability. One of three rookies representing Team Rooks, we made it to the final contest but lost by four seconds during the half-court shot round.
It's a quarter past midnight now, and traffic is at a crawl as I pull up to King D's mansion party. He’s an OG rapper who throws notorious A-list parties. A sea of luxury cars wait their turn for valet service. I wring my hands, balancing the steeringwheel with my knee. If I don’t get laid soon, I’m gonna explode. This is the longest period I’ve gone without fucking. I keep reminding myself of that to counter the strong urge to pop a U-turn and head home. Well, that and Idris using his veteran card to coerce me into coming. He rolled his chair over to me in the locker room last week and said, “I added you to King D’s guest list this weekend.”
“Nah, I’m good. I fucking hate parties,” I replied.
He shook his head. “This ain’t a party, my yute. Parties are for children. It’s an adult experience. I’m pulling rank. You gotta come. You’ve never been out with us. Basketball ain’t just ball, bro. Team bonding matters.”
I heard Adam’s voice, reminding me to live a little. The guys probably think I’m a cornball for never clubbing and opting to do my own thing after road games.
My eyes clenched shut, and I huffed out a pained breath. “Fine.”
He grinned and shoved my shoulder. “What have you heard about the event?”
I shrugged. “They get wild…uh, and mad celebrities attend.” I tracked my brain for other details, but I came up blank.
He snapped his fingers, “A-ha! Everyone knows that shit gets wild, but if you ask for details, motherfuckers clam up. Know why?”
I shook my head.
“NDA, bruh. Nobody gets past the threshold without signing one. You can keep your phone, but pictures aren’t allowed. I’ve seen A-list celebrities ejected like they’re garbage just for posing for a selfie. I’m talking hemmed up by the collar.”
I chuckled.
“Invites are hard to come by. Only legends, bad bitches, and the ultra-famous make it in.”
“So, how’d you get me on the list?” I asked, under no impression that I was included in any of those groups. Not yet, at least.
He cocked his head and looked at me like I just dunked in the wrong net. “Bruh, find me a rapper who doesn’t want to be a balla. You still don’t have a sense of your clout in this town, do you?”
I shrugged.
“I forget what it’s like to be a rook. Life before endless pussy, free designer drip, and last-minute reservations anywhere you want,” he said, gazing off.
“Anything else I need to know about the part–adult experience?” I asked, interrupting his trek down an undoubtedly filthy memory lane.
His eyes drilled into me. “You tryna make me catch a case? I signed an NDA. King D is ruthless, bro. He sues and bans motherfuckers for life. I’ll tell you this, though—come with an open mind. Whatever your vice, you’ll find it there. I mean, like, let your imagination go wild, man.” As he kicked off the base of my chair and floated back to his station, thoughts of Sid sprang to mind.
I pull up to the front of the mansion and hand the valet my keys. Idris, Tevin, and Malik are already here somewhere, based on our group text. I make my way inside after I’m confirmed to be on the guest list and sign the electronic NDA. Rihanna is booming from the speakers, making my body tremble with the bass. The ground floor is jam-packed with barely clad, sweaty, dancing bodies squeezed together. Strobe lights dancing off of shoulders, hands, and faces illuminate the floor. I recognize a few players, including Kristian, Sid’s teammate. I haven’t seen Sid since the anniversary of my parents’ passing two weeks back. We’ve traded a few texts here and there. A part of me is itching for the opportunity to leave the party with him tonight. Thenthere’s the other part of me that’s honestly afraid to cross that line. What I feel for him is so intense it scares the shit out of me. I’m barely in control when I’m around him, and control is the only thing holding my shit together. The best thing I can do for myself and everyone else is to keep my head down and ball.
I recognize a famous football player right as he snorts a line of something off of the coffee table. I head to the bar to get a drink. My roommate in college kept alcohol stocked in our closet. He’d make all sorts of hipster cocktails like reimagined Manhattans and ones with mezcal, Lapsang souchong tea, and all types of bitters I’d never heard of. I hated mezcal the first time I tried it, or so I thought. By the second glass, it had grown on me. I rarely drink during the basketball season, but if I have any chance of getting laid tonight, I need to loosen up. The situation couldn’t work more in my favor. With everyone signing an NDA, my chances of finding another guy to fuck discreetly couldn’t be better. I can’t just hop on Grindr and fuck a regular guy without risking getting blackmailed or outed. I roll out the tension in my shoulders as I slide into a newly vacated spot at the bar and order a Mezcal Manhattan.
After grabbing my drink, I make my way to the pool area. A firm hand clasps my shoulder, and I spin around to face Tevin. He’s shirtless, wearing orange swim trunks. I almost miss the red, curly-haired, model-looking woman holding his hand. The music drowns his voice out, so I tilt my head closer to him.
“…get lost with this baddie. Malik and Idris are upstairs.”
“Good lookin’,” I yell back. I glance between him and the woman. “Have fun.”
The pool is full of bodies, some intertwined and making out, with lots of topless people swimming around. This party could easily become an epic orgy. I’m about to turn and search for Malik and Idris when I notice a few Marvels players in the lounge area next to the pool. Palm trees block my view, so Iventure closer. Justin’s lap is full of a woman with her face nestled between his chin and neck. He’s slowly massaging her round breasts. My gaze pans right to Boris—I think that’s Boris—the Marvels’ center. He’s making out with a woman straddling his lap. His hand travels down her back and disappears under her skirt.
A bead of sweat slides down my back.
I zero in on another lounge area, partially concealed at the end of the row. I press forward to get a better view. Not watching where I’m going, I almost smack into a security guard who flashes me a dubious look. I nod as I step around him. When I gaze back to the lounge area, my muscles tighten as I take in a shirtless Sid in red swim trunks. The gold chain resting against his oiled bare chest gleams.Damn, he looks good.Thoughts of him woke me up hard this morning.
I recognize the woman sitting next to him, Stacy, one of the hottest pop singers out right now. Clad in a lavender-colored two-piece swimsuit, she presses her mouth against Sid’s ear, apparently sharing something funny because his head tilts back with laughter. They look cozy and annoyingly hot together.
A cold burn freezes my hand. I stare down and release the death grip on my glass. Of course, he’s already linked for the night. As if sensing someone watching, he dips his chin forward, and his gaze roams the area. I spin on my heels and walk back inside the house. I throw back my drink and head for the staircase. Once I reach the second floor, I realize there are at least two more levels and at least ten rooms full of people to look through. By the time I’ve searched the third room, I think I’ve seen it all. The first room had at least a half-dozen people going at it like bunnies, gay, straight, you name it. I’ve seen more drugs here than a DEA evidence lockup. I figure I’ll run into my teammates eventually, so I head to the nearby bar for another drink. As I’m waiting my turn, I scan the crowd at thebar, and I immediately recognize the man standing next to me—Wilhelm Burton—an actor starring in a fictional drama series about a loyal leader of a lawless motorcycle gang. Despite the missing tattoos, he looks as sexy and rugged as his character. His medium-length blond hair is up in a bun, and he has a neat beard, blue-green eyes, and peach lips. He’s wearing dark blue ripped jeans and a tight-fitting, nude-colored T-shirt that highlights his muscles. The bartender interrupts my shameless gawking to take my order. I order another Mezcal Manhattan.
“Make that two,” Wilhelm says.
