The contract lawyer, Warren, had a printed copy of the CBA open on the table and his finger on a section Keshawn had stopped reading three minutes ago.
“Portland’s offer is the max they can give you under the CBA,” Warren said. “Which means it’s the max any team can give you. They can also offer a fifth year. Nobody else can do that. And since you’re restricted, any offer sheet you sign, Portland has the right to match. They match, you’re back in Portland.”
Keshawn sat back in the chair. The conference room was nice, glass walls, leather chairs, a view of Westwood Boulevard through the blinds. The head of the collective, Gordon, sat at the end of the table in a polo shirt and jeans. Bronstein sat to Keshawn’s left, his arms crossed.
“So leaving Portland isn’t going to be about the money,” Keshawn said. It came out more question than statement.
Gordon leaned forward. “Portland did right by you, Chase. They rebuilt that roster around you. Handed you the keys. You sign early, they got time to build out the rest of the roster, maybe move some pieces. Deni didn’t really show up in the playoffs.”
Bronstein shifted in his chair. “Deni’s a really nice player. Yeah, he struggled but so did a lot of people. I do agree there are pieces they can move around."
Keshawn nodded. “Signing early would be good for them. I get that. But I’d like to know what my options are before I commit to anything.”
Bronstein looked at him. “The Clippers.”
Gordon cleared his throat.
Bronstein glanced over, then back at Keshawn. “The Clippers are interested. I can tell you that right now."
Warren adjusted his glasses. "Portland would need to agree to any sign-and-trade scenario."
“They can’t force him to play for them,” Bronstein said. He looked at Warren then at Keshawn. “I believe we ended that kind of thing a few centuries ago. For both our people.”
The room got quiet for a beat. Then Gordon let out a short laugh. Warren smiled behind his hand. Keshawn felt the corner of his mouth pull up.
“I think it’s only fair that I take visits,” Keshawn said. "See what’s out there."
The lawyer nodded. “I’ll inform Portland.”
“I’ll let the Clippers know we’re in the game,” Bronstein said.
The meeting broke. Gordon stood and came around the table, clapping Keshawn on the shoulder.
"Like I was telling you, the views are absolutely stunning. I love it here, I really do, but I’m telling you, nothing beats spending a week out there. The water is beautiful. The women, too. And the best part? You can’t understand them!"
Keshawn laughed. Gordon talking as they moved through the glass doors into the lobby. Bronstein walked on his other side, phone already out, thumb moving across the screen.
The lobby was bright and open, marble floors, high ceilings. The restaurant attached to the building sat behind a glass partition, tables set along the windows facing the street. Keshawn’s eyes moved across it without thinking, people eating, drinking, the usual Westwood lunch crowd.
Then he saw her.
She sat at a table near the back, her back mostly to him, long hair falling past her shoulders in waves that caught the light. Two other women sat across from her, one talking, one laughing. Her hand was around a glass, her wrist tilted at an angle he recognized.
She turned at the wrong moment. Her eyes found his across the lobby and the restaurant and the glass partition between them.
Half a second. Maybe less.
Then Bronstein was at his elbow, steering him toward the door, and Gordon was still talking about Sitges, and the automatic doors slid open to the heat and noise of Westwood Boulevard.
Keshawn didn’t look back.
…
The barber’s clippers buzzed against the back of Trey’s neck. The mirror in front of him showed the three chairs, the middle one empty, the waiting bench along the wall with two guys on it, the TV mounted in the corner playing First Take with the sound low.
Cecil’s hands weren’t what they used to be. The clippers drifted a fraction longer on the left side than the right, and Trey felt the difference more than saw it.
“Lakers ain’t doing shit this summer,” the guy on the bench said. He had a phone in his hand and his legs stretched out in front of him. "We saw what they did last summer. How you replace Luka with fucking Shaedon Sharpe?"
“Sharpe ain’t the problem,” the other one said. "He ain’t the one that give himself all that money."
"The motherfucker still took it so he is the problem."
Trey watched them in the mirror. The clippers moved up toward his crown and Cecil’s free hand tilted his head forward. Trey’s eyes moved to the window. A woman walked past pushing a stroller. A car with bass that rattled the shop’s front glass rolled by and kept going.
“Cecil,” Trey said. “You still got that kid working for you? The tall one?”
“Deon? Nah. Deon moved to Atlanta."
The door opened. A young guy stepped in, maybe nineteen, wearing a white tee and jeans that sat low on his hips. He looked around the shop, his eyes landing on Trey in the mirror.
"Welcome home, Blood."
Trey looked at him in the mirror. Didn’t recognize him. The kid had a thin mustache and his hair was cut close on the sides, longer on top. He nodded still.
Cecil tilted his head toward the back without stopping the clippers. The young guy nodded and walked past the chairs, through the doorway that led to the back office. The door closed behind him.
Trey watched the mirror. “Everything good?”
Cecil laughed. The sound came from somewhere deep in his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, everything good. Just the cost of doing business these days, you know how it is.”
The clippers kept moving.
A minute later the back door opened and the young guy came out. He didn’t look at Trey this time. He walked straight to the front door, pulled it open, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Trey watched him through the window. The kid turned left and walked down Crenshaw, his hands still in his pockets.
Trey watched him until he turned the corner and disappeared.
…
Vic had the knife going through an onion on the cutting board, the blade hitting the wood in a steady rhythm. Keshawn sat at the counter on one of the stools, his phone face-down next to a glass of wine he’d barely touched.
“How’d the meeting go?” Vic said without looking up.
“It went.”
Vic scraped the onion off the board into the pan. The oil hissed. He wiped his hands on the towel hanging from his belt loop and turned around, leaning against the counter.
"I don’t know, man. I feel like for something like this, you need an agent."
Keshawn picked up the wine glass, set it back down. "For what? We know what the money is going to be. No need giving them that twice, three times the percentage for them to land me the same max deal I know I’m going to get."
“You know what I mean. It’s more than just money at this level. You need some motherfucker like Rich Paul. Making deals and shit. You think LeBron ever left a meeting talking about some 'it went’ when he’s about to make the biggest decision of his life."
Vic turned back to the stove, stirred the pan. “I never felt right about that deal. It’s low-key some like predatory loan type shit."
The kitchen was quiet except for the pan. Keshawn looked at the back of Vic’s head.
“That deal,” Keshawn said, “got you this house.”
Vic’s hand stopped stirring.
“That deal got you the apartment before this one. Where Charlene staying at right now. That deal got a bunch of stuff for this family.”
Vic didn’t turn around. His hand stayed on the spatula. The pan kept sizzling.
Keshawn waited.
Vic didn’t say anything. He stirred the pan once, slow, and then set the spatula down on the counter beside the stove. His shoulders dropped a half inch.
The kitchen stayed quiet.
Keshawn picked up the wine glass, took a drink, set it back down.
“I saw Candace today,” he said.
Vic turned around. He picked up the towel and wiped his hands again.
“Where?”
“Westwood. In a restaurant. She was with some people.”
“You talk to her?”
“Nah. I was walking out. She was sitting down. We just—” Keshawn made a small motion with his hand.
Vic leaned against the counter again. The pan behind him popped and he reached back without looking and turned the burner down.
“And?”
“And nothing. That’s it.”
“You still thinking about her?”
Keshawn didn’t answer. He turned the wine glass in his hand.
"What happened to that girl you were talking to?"
"Who? Brit?"
"Your milk of magnesia," Vic laughed as he turned back to the stove. He picked up the spatula and stirred the pan, then reached for a plate from the stack on the counter.
"She’s cool," Keshawn shrugged, "But, you know."
"That boy touch down for a few minutes and he’s already fiending for some more melanin," Vic kept cackling as he set two plates down on the counter, "Dr. Umar would be proud."
"I know your ass ain’t talking," Keshawn pointed towards Vic, "Glass houses, cuzzo."
Vic held his hands up, "Fair enough, fair enough."
Keshawn quietly laughed to himself, taking another sip of his wine, "Speaking of which. Guess what?"
