Page 8 of Loving the Legend
“Catharine, Phil, it’s good of you to make it,” Adam greets my new agents from Preeminent Management. The agency’s managed at least forty-five first-round draft picks and a slew of top players in the league.
“There’s nowhere else we’d rather be,” Catharine replies. Her knee-length dress, the color of red amaranth, looks expertly tailored. A thick black braid adorns her head like a halo.
“How are you holding up, Ty?” she asks, peering into my eyes.
“Is it obvious? I probably look like the green-faced vomit emoji,” I joke.
“It’s normal to be nervous,” she says, patting my shoulders.
“It’s true that everything changes today, and it’s important to acknowledge this pivotal moment in your life. Yet, it’s only one more step in an already stellar career,” Phil says, with a trace of an Italian accent.
His warm smile reveals a perfect set of dimples. My gaze pans over his head of sleek black curls, deep-set brown eyes, and trim beard down to his white dress shirt, blue tie, and slate gray suit pants. His shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, balancing the otherwise crisp look. I spot his jacket draped over his chair. He’s young, but he gives off old money. If I had to guess, I’d bet he already has enough dough to retire comfortably, but he works because he’s good at it and loves it.
“You look fantastic, by the way. Those gorgeous eyes of yours sparkle against the dark blue,” he says, winking while dusting something off my blazer.
“Thanks.” I smile. It grows too wide, so I reel it in. I overdo it, and now I’m frowning, so I smile again, but it’s even wider than before.Okay, then.
I nod and beeline to my seat next to Adam.
Players, agents, and family members pack the room. Besides commentary on the draft tomorrow, the second most covered topic will be everyone’s drip. Some players are showing out tonight. I went for a monochromatic look with a navy-blue Armani suit, matching blue button-up, and no tie, compliments of Preeminent Management. I spot Gene, a player from the University of North Carolina, wearing a silk paisley suit with no shirt. Wait, thereisa shirt, but it’s see-through. An elaborate diamond choker thing sparkles from his neck. Gene’s so comfortable in his skin that he rocks it as easily as a jersey and shorts. Tennyson, a player from the University of Kentucky, is dripped in hot pink and black polka dots. He’s even dyed half of his afro a matching pink. The drip fits the personalities in the room to a T. I’ve only ever wanted to be known for my game. If I could skip all the PR engagements and interviews that come with the gig, I’d be the happiest athlete on earth. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works. NBA players are supposed to be superstars, especially the great ones. The more exposure a player receives, the more it enhances the sport, so you’re expected to seek opportunities to enhance your profile. The league is counting on it.
The buzz in the room reduces to a hush as Tom Jones, the league’s commissioner, approaches the dais.
“And so it begins,” Adam says, squeezing my hand. I zone out Tom’s opening remarks, lean forward, and dip my head between my palms. I tell myself to breathe, but my stomach hangs from weathered suspension cables. Breathing risks sending it into free fall.
“With the first pick in the NBA Draft, the LA Knights draft Tyler Washington from—” The room erupts into applause and congratulatory shouts, drowning Tom out. I bet TV screens at home have cut to my alma mater, where my old teammates are celebrating. I imagined this moment a million times before, and in every version, I jump out of my seat in excitement and hug my family. So, I’m surprised that I am glued to my seat and flooded with more emotions than I ever cared to show in public. Memories of my parents flash through my mind, and the ache overwhelms me.Stand up, I tell myself. But instead, I cover my face in my hands and choke for a second, trying to breathe.
I’m swept up in an embrace by a teary-eyed Adam.
“You did it, kid. Congratulations! They’d be so proud of you.I’mso proud of you,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. How often I’ve felt anchored by his embrace when drowning in a sea of nightmares over the last few years.
“I don’t know where I’d be without you.” The raw honesty of that truth causes a prick behind my eyes. Without Adam, I’d have no one. God knows where I would be today. Despite his grief, he picked up where my parents left off and helped make today come true.
“As long as my heart beats, I’ll always be here, kid,” he says, squeezing my shoulders. The thought of Adam’s heart not beating tugs the weathered suspension cables, and my stomach drops. I palm my stomach, causing Adam to wince as he realizes his poor choice of words. Forcing a small smile, I turn to hug Catharine and Phil, who both offer congratulations, and then I make my way to the stage.
Tom embraces me in a perfunctory hug.
“Congratulations, Ty. This is darn near historic. You should be very proud. I know you’ll do great things in Los Angeles, and I’m sure your parents are watching over you with great pride today. ” A southern drawl coats his voice.
I choke back tears and let out a shaky breath. “Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m honored to be granted the opportunity to play in the league.”
We pose for a quick picture. As I leave the stage, Tom announces that Jeff will head to Indiana.
Good for him. It’s what he wanted.
I excuse myself once back in my seat. I dap a few fellow players and accept their cheers of congratulations as I make my way to the restroom. Once there, I blow my nose and wash my face with cold water.
I reach for a paper towel as I peer at myself in the mirror. My mom’s long brown lashes and hazel eyes stare back at me, but they are my dad’s almond shape. I have my dad’s coily brown hair, longer on top and faded on the sides. My mother’s freckles dust over my dad’s angular cheekbones. Having features from both of my parents makes me feel closer to them. I used to resent the moniker “Pretty Boy,” which most people assume refers to my looks, until I realized that I am what’s left of both of my parents. Besides Adam, I’m the last living trace of their love. I will only ever feel proud of that. I take a deep breath, dry my face, and head back to my seat.
After dinner, a couple of the guys try to drag me to the draft party, but I fall back, opting to turn in early.
“Go out and celebrate. Would it kill you to make friends?”
“I’m not here to make friends, Unc.” I plunk myself in a plush armchair in the living room of the two-bedroom hotel suite the league put us in for the night.
“I worry about you. Ever since your parents died, you’ve closed yourself off.” He grabs a couple water bottles from the mini fridge and tosses me one.
I shrug as I catch it. In high school, I learned the hard way that being popular and having friends aren’t the same thing. My so-called friends were awkward as fuck when my parents died.They treated me like a pathetic sympathy case. Then, they acted like I was a burden when I was still grieving months later. Grief is loneliness and sadness on steroids.
