Personal, p.1
Personal, page 1
PERSONAL
ST. LOUIS CYCLONES: BOOK 3
ALEXANDRIA HOUSE
PINK CASHMERE PUBLISHING, LLC
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2022 by Alexandria House
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Alexandria House
EPIGRAPH
“The true measure of a man is not how he behaves in moments of comfort and convenience but how he stands at times of controversy and challenges.” ― Martin Luther King Jr.
* * *
“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.”
― Alice Walker
PROLOGUE
ARMAND
He’s coming up on the left, pivot right, dribble, fake a pass, eyes on the goal, gotta get the ball there, but this nigga is on me on me.
“Daniels!” That was Brickey letting me know he was open, but I couldn’t shake the big motherfucker who was guarding me.
Shit.
Sweat rolled down my face as I dribbled, moving left—then right—then left at top speed, managing to make my opponent stumble a little but enough to give me an opening, I let the ball go, watching as it sailed through the air…and missed the damn hoop.
Mother. Fuck.
The buzzer sounded signaling the beginning of halftime, and I couldn’t wait to get to the locker room and away from the rude-ass fans I knew would be talking shit as we left the court. I was good as long as they didn’t throw nothing at me because I didn’t mind climbing the bleachers and fucking someone up. Yeah, we were down by ten points, but that shit couldn’t be blamed on me just because of this one missed shot. At least there was a chance I could’ve made it. Brickey’s ass was almost guaranteed to miss.
I kept my eyes ahead of me, moving into the tunnel with jeers from fans filling my ears.
Fuck them.
Fuck all of them.
It amazed me how a bunch of folks who couldn’t dribble a ball let alone run up and down a court like we did night after night passed judgement on our performances. Out of shape, miserable, no talent having, fickle assholes—that’s what they were.
Once I made it to the locker room, I headed to my locker and my phone, ignoring the looks my teammates were shooting at me and only half-listening to the coach go over the highlights, or really, the lowlights, of the first half of the game. A locker room attendant handed me a water bottle full of what I knew to be a drink suffused with electrolytes, a specialized blend a member of the team’s dietary crew prescribed for me since I was known to sweat more than most. I was quickly navigating to Twitter to see if my fuckup was a trending topic when I felt someone standing over me. Raising my eyes, I stared at the attendant who usually would’ve handed me my drink and disappeared. He looked…concerned, but I had no idea why. I stared back at him for a moment, and I guess that was enough to make him leave because he did. Shaking my head, I refocused on my phone and the Twitter app to see that I was a trending topic.
I sighed, glancing up long enough to see that more eyes were on me.
What the fuck?
Yeah, I missed the shot, but got damn! Everyone missed a shot from time to time, even Drayveon Walker!
I closed my eyes and told myself I couldn’t start fucking my teammates up. I’d promised Nathan Moore, my agent who was really more than my agent, that I would act like I had some sense and stop fighting people. But this shit was just strange. To avoid doing some shit that whoever I did it to would regret, I went against my first mind and actually looked at some of the tweets that mentioned me, my eyes narrowing and my heart rate accelerating with each post I read.
I know damn well I’m not seeing what I’m seeing. This shit can’t be true.
I kept scrolling and reading and scrolling and reading until I could feel my temple pulsing, my knee started bouncing, and heat began crawling up my neck to my face.
These motherfuckers…
“Daniels!”
My head snapped up to see the locker room emptying and Coach standing over me. I didn’t respond to him because I couldn’t.
I fucking couldn’t.
“You heard?” he asked, his voice its usual low rumble, his face bearing its standard impassive expression. I suppose he knew there was no need to elaborate.
Still, I didn’t, couldn’t respond.
Coach shook his head and sighed before turning to leave but stopped in his tracks when I said, “So everybody knew but me?”
Glancing at me over his shoulder, he shook his head again. “No. I knew it was in the works, but I didn’t find out the trade had been finalized until during the game. Look, you’re talented and I like you, but the owners see you as a liability.”
“A what?!” I yelled.
“A liability. You’re too…unpredictable, volatile. Listen, the best thing you can do right now is get back out on that court and make this last Pistons game your best.”
I had a lot of respect for Coach, a black man who understood me. At least I believed he did. Turns out he didn’t, but that wasn’t surprising. No one understood me. Rarely did anyone even try.
“Nah, y’all got it. If I’m out, I’m out. I ain’t playing no got damn second half,” I bit out.
He sighed as he exited the locker room. “Well, Daniels…that’s a damn disappointment.”
And that? That’s when I blacked the fuck out.
ONE
ARMAND
Sportscaster one: “The biggest news coming from the NBA this week is the mid-game Armand Daniels trade from the Pistons to the Cyclones.”
Sportscaster two: “Yes, Dave, and although Stevie Wonder probably saw this trade coming, it’s been reported that Armand Daniels’ reaction to the news was, in one word, explosive.”
Sportscaster one: “Well, Bill…I’m not sure reported is the best word since there’s recorded footage of his reaction. Let’s take a look.”
The scene on the screen shifted from inside the Black Sports Network studio to the Pistons’ locker room. The blue carpet with the centered Pistons logo coming into view first, then me sitting in the chair at my locker, my eyes focused on the room’s entrance. Whoever filmed me zoomed in on my face, and the expression on it actually scared me. I was pissed, like pissed pissed. Just watching myself brought back feelings that still pulled at my sanity. This video captured me moments after Coach called me a fucking disappointment and chronicled a pocket of time I honestly had no recollection of. But there I was, plain as damn day, standing from my chair, throwing my phone first, then my chair, then other chairs, making them hit the wall under the screen, which at that moment, was showing the second half of the game. While I wrecked shit, I could be heard yelling all kinds of stuff like, “Fuck this team!”
Or “These motherfuckers can kiss my ass!”
Or “A disappointment?! Fuck him!”
It was uncomfortable to watch, but I didn’t feel bad for doing it. I was tired of being traded. I couldn’t lay down any roots like this. I couldn’t find any equilibrium. I couldn’t build anything. I just wanted some got damn stability.
The video ended, and just as Bill’s and Dave’s bitch-ass faces reappeared on the screen, Nathan Moore reached for the remote, turning the TV off. The room fell silent until I finally looked over at him sitting in a chair in my living room in my temporary-ass apartment in this temporary-ass city.
“Go ahead,” I muttered, “say what you flew all the way here from Tennessee to say. Say you told me this was coming, that I shouldn’t have been shocked, that I racked up a fine for tearing up that locker room for nothing, that I’m lucky they didn’t have me arrested instead of just having security drag my ass off the premises.”
He leaned back in the chair, straightening his tie before lifting his hands. “You’ve said it all, which begs the question: what the fuck is wrong with you?” His response came with thunder in his voice. Shit, he almost startled me.
Almost, but I ain’t no punk, so…
“Ain’t nothing wrong with me,” I shot back, leaning forward on my sofa and shaking my head. “You can’t see how fucked up it is for me to keep getting traded?! Miami, New Orleans…hell, this is my second go with Detroit! These motherfuckers are trading me for a second time! And now the Cyclones? The fucking Cyclones?!”
“The Cyclones are a good team. Your volatile ass is lucky they want you.”
Waving my hand, I said, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m one of the best players in the league. I know it. You know it. The Cyclones know it. They ain’t doing me no got damn favors.”
“Yeah, they are! Look, Armand…you’re talented. You are. I’ve said this tons of times before, but I’ll say it again—you have the potential to be one of the greats if you don’t fuck your own chances up. You’re unlikeable, unstable, and uncooperative as hell. All these years in the league and you’re still a ball hog?”
“I miss one damn shot and—”
“It ain’t about that! You don’t know how to be a teammate! You don’t know how to have anyone’s back but your own, and you aren’t exactly doing a good job of that. To be honest, I’m tired of your shit.”
“Man, fuck you! You don’t wanna represent me anymore, then step. I don’t need you. I don’t need nobody!”
“Here you go with that you against the world shit. The only person doing you wrong is you.”
I was done talking because this was the same shit he always said when trouble hit. Wasn’t nothing for me to say, so we both just sat there for like ten minutes. Finally, I asked, “You quitting?”
“You for real this time? You want me to quit?”
“I don’t wanna be on no damn team with Leland McClain. We cool but not that cool,” I said, ignoring his question.
“Well, I can look into some overseas teams, or maybe you wanna go semi-pro.”
I looked up to see him wearing a smirk.
In response, I grinned and shook my head at this man who’d been putting up with my shit longer than most ever would, and said, “Man, fuck you, Nate,” making him laugh.
“The first thing you’re going to do when you get to St. Louis is find a therapist. No more bullshit about you not having enough time and no more quitting after one or two visits. This is a deal breaker for me. If you don’t resume therapy, I’m going to drop your ass as a client for real, Daniels.”
I stared at him before reclining on the sofa and blowing out a breath. “I hear you.”
ELLA
I hugged my stepmom, Jo, and my siblings, Nat, Lena, Lil’ Ev, and the twins, Ever and Jonah, blinking back tears as I watched them file out of the house—one twin on Jo’s hip and one on Nat’s although they were both toddlers, rambunctious toddlers. Then it was just me and the big guy.
He’d been leaning against the foyer wall watching me say my goodbyes. Now, he was approaching me, a heavy sadness clouding his face as he took mine into his big hands.
“You can come visit whenever you want. You can call me anytime, day or night,” he said.
“I know, Daddy,” I replied, still fighting tears.
“You don’t go anywhere without security. Anywhere.”
“Daddy, I am twenty-three years old. I’ve lived separate from you before. I went to college; then I stayed in New York for a whole year. I’ll be fine.”
Ignoring my statement, he continued with, “You didn’t have to move, Princess. I wouldn’t have been in your business. I know you’re grown and deserve your privacy.”
“I appreciate that, but I…I just needed a change. I’ll be okay, I promise, and if at any moment I don’t feel okay, I’ll let you know. Plus, I have Mother Erica on speed dial, and Uncle Leland is just thirty minutes away. Remember? You insisted that if I moved out of LA, I had to still be near a relative, just like in college.”
My daddy, the Big South, nodded before planting a soft kiss on my forehead and pulling me into a tight hug. Leaning into the protection and comfort I’d always felt flowing from him to me, I shut my eyes tightly and inhaled his scent. I loved my father more than anyone else in the world, and if I was honest with myself, I’d have to admit that I didn’t want to leave him or the rest of my nuclear family, but I knew I needed to. I needed to prove to myself that I could stand on my own two feet, that I could cope and thrive without the umbrella of sanctuary my dad willingly and enthusiastically held over me.
When he finally released me, I saw that his eyes were wet. Giving him my bravest smile, I reached up, pulling his head down so that I could kiss his forehead. “You’ll be okay,” I said.
He chuckled before kissing my cheek and exiting through my front door. I stood there watching as their SUV left my driveway, shut the door to my new home, and then collapsed into tears.
TWO
ELLA
“Mon ange! I’ve been awaiting your call! You are in Missouri, I trust? Your papa has, uh…tucked you in?”
I giggled at hearing his voice, his French accent thick and curvy. “Tucked me in? I’m not a child, Claude.”
He sucked his tongue. “You know what I mean. He bought you a house, no? So, you are uh…squared away?”
“I am. You know my dad, always going above and beyond. Three bedrooms, four bathrooms, three thousand square feet of luxury fully furnished, and all this for little old me.”
“Everett McClain is a good man, mon ange. Always has been. He loves you as a father should.”
“I know. I’m a lucky girl in many ways. So, how are you? Taking your meds? Staying away from the liquor?”
“You nag!” Claude DuMont groaned. For a man in his sixties, he could be downright pigheaded about taking care of himself. “You might be my favorite model, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear your fussing. I’m fine! Hans makes sure of that. And here he is now with a smoothie or something. It’s green. You know I hate the color green.” Hans was his main lover of many years, but Claude had a trail of broken male and female hearts cluttering his past.
“I do know that. Tell Hans I said hi. You drink your smoothie, and I’ll call you later.”
“All right, mon ange. Call your mother, chérie.”
Before I could reply, he hung up and I sighed, resting against the back of the sofa in my new living room. I loved Claude DuMont, a legendary designer who’d taken me under his wing from the very beginning of my modeling career. He was a dear friend, a mentor, and there wasn’t much I’d ever refused him, but I wasn’t calling my mother.
Not today.
Not ever, if I could help it.
Feeling that way killed the good vibes chatting with Claude always gave me, but I was sadly accustomed to my emotions being in a pit anyway. Loss could do that to you. Loss, pain, despair—I was uncomfortably familiar with those states of being. I’d spent a lot of time dwelling in darkness, so much so that being in the light felt…foreign. Nevertheless, I’d continue to fight to keep the void behind me. I’d almost lost myself before. I couldn’t let that happen again.
ARMAND
She a baddie and she mine
Prime rib, perfection defined
Long legs, a pretty face
All eyes on her when she steps in the place…
On One’s Mine blasted from the speakers of my Urus as I rode through the streets of my hometown, checking out neighborhoods mainly on the north side where my mom and I lived while I was growing up. Every time I came home, it seemed shit just got worse and worse. A lot of my old friends were either dead, in jail, running from the law, or had left the city altogether, but there were a few who were still here and had managed to upgrade. My boy, Scotty, was one of those few, and being able to hang with him on the regular was one of the scarce positives about this move. That, and I’d be close to family—my granny, my cousins, aunts, and uncles, my mom.
