Los Angeles | 2011
Damien's POV
The final bell at Palisades High rang, signaling freedom for everyone else, but for me, it was just the starter pistol for the real grind. I watched Naird and his little boy-band crew heading toward the gym, talking strategy, living that charmed life where their biggest worry was a pick-and-roll defense.
I didn't have time for envy. I barely had time to breathe.
I slung my backpack over one shoulder and hit the pavement, catching the 405 bus just as the doors were hissing shut. I kept my head down, ignoring the noise, conserving energy. I had a game tomorrow against Anderson. A game I needed to dominate to keep the hierarchy in check, to remind everyone—including myself—that I was still the King. But right now, the King had to go flip burgers.
"Welcome to Wendy's, may I take your order?"
The phrase tasted like grease and minimum wage. I stood behind the register, the headset pinching my ear, my feet already aching in my non-slip shoes.
"Yeah, lemme get a… uh… Dave's Double. No pickles. And a Frosty. Large," the customer said, staring at his phone, not even looking at me.
"That'll be $8.45, sir," I said, my voice flat, efficient.
Six hours. That was the shift. From 3:00 PM to 9:00 PM, I was a machine. I took orders, I filled cups, I bagged fries that scorched my fingertips. The rush hour hit at 6:00, a wall of hungry, impatient people. I moved with the same fluidity I used on the court—sidestepping coworkers, pivoting between the register and the fry station, anticipating needs before they were voiced. But there was no glory in this paint. Just the smell of old oil that clung to my dreads and the relentless, beeping rhythm of the machines.
By the time I clocked out at 9:00 PM, my back was stiff, and my brain felt like it had been deep-fried. But I wasn't done.
I changed in the cramped employee bathroom, swapping the polo shirt for a white chef's coat I kept in my bag. I washed my face with cold water, scrubbing the fast-food grease from my skin, trying to wake myself up.
"Round two," I muttered to the mirror. My reflection looked tired. The eyes were already heavy.
I walked three blocks to the Meridian Hotel. It was a different world—polished marble floors, soft lighting, the smell of expensive perfume instead of fries. I slipped in through the service entrance, punching my card.
"You're late, D," Marco, the sous-chef, grunted as I walked into the prep kitchen.
"9:05, Chef. Bus traffic," I lied smoothly, tying my apron.
"Just get on the station. We have a banquet tomorrow. I need fifty pounds of mirepoix and the tenderloins trimmed."
I grabbed my knife. For the next five hours, I chopped. Carrots. Onions. Celery. Beef. The rhythm was hypnotic. Chop, slide, chop, slide. It was all wrist action and focus. If your mind wandered here, you lost a finger.
It was quiet in the prep kitchen, just the hum of the walk-in refrigerators and the staccato beat of knives on cutting boards. My mind drifted to the match tomorrow. Anderson High. They were scrappy, unorganized, but they had energy.
I need to be explosive, I thought, slicing through a slab of beef. I need that first step.
But as the clock ticked past midnight, then 1:00 AM, I could feel my body rebelling. My legs felt heavy. My reflexes were dulling. By the time I finished cleaning my station at 2:00 AM, I was running on fumes.
"Good work, kid," Marco said, clapping me on the shoulder as I untied my apron. "Go home."
I walked out into the cool Los Angeles night. The city was asleep. I should be asleep.
"I'm not gonna be at my peak tomorrow," I whispered to the empty street. "Damn it."
I caught the night owl bus, dozing off with my head against the vibrating window, jerking awake every time the bus hit a pothole. I walked the final half-mile to our apartment complex, the silence of the neighborhood heavy and oppressive.
I unlocked the door quietly, trying not to wake anyone. But as I stepped into the small living room, the flickering blue light of the television greeted me.
Tyson.
My little brother was sitting on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, his eyes glued to a cartoon that was definitely too loud for 2:30 in the morning.
I scanned the room. The kitchen light was off. The bedroom door was open. Empty.
"Ty?" I said softly.
He jumped, turning around. "D! You're back!"
I dropped my bag and knelt beside him. "What are you doing up, little man? It's late."
"I couldn't sleep," he said, rubbing his eyes.
"Where's Mom?" I asked, though a cold knot was already tightening in my stomach. I knew the answer.
"She went out," Tyson said innocently. "She gave me dinner—macaroni—and then she said she had to go meet a friend. She said you'd be home soon."
Frustration, hot and acidic, rose in my throat. She left a seven-year-old alone. Again. She knew I was working a double. She knew I had a game. She knew he had school.
"It's okay, Ty," I said, forcing a smile I didn't feel. I picked up the remote and turned off the TV. "But you gotta sleep. You have school tomorrow. Big day, right?"
"Can you read to me?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I can read to you."
I ushered him into our shared bedroom, tucking him in. I read him two pages of a comic book before his breathing evened out and he was out cold.
I walked back into the living room, the silence now deafening. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch a wall. Instead, I sat down at the small, wobbly dining table and opened my laptop. I had a history assignment due tomorrow. If I didn't pass, I didn't play. Those were the school rules, hierarchy or not.
I stared at the screen, the words swimming. The Protestant Reformation. Martin Luther. It felt like reading Greek.
"Focus, Damien," I hissed.
I went to the kitchen to make coffee. The jar was almost empty, just dregs. I shook it into a mug, added hot water, and drank it black. It tasted like battery acid, but it did the job.
As I stood there, leaning against the counter, I crumpled up the empty coffee sachet. The small plastic wastebin was in the corner, maybe ten feet away.
I squared my feet. I bent my knees. I imagined Naird guarding me, his intense eyes watching my hips. I visualized the arc.
"Kobe," I whispered.
I flicked my wrist. The wrapper sailed through the air, a perfect parabola, and swish. Nothing but plastic liner.
I grabbed a piece of junk mail from the counter balled it up, Step back, Fadeaway. Swish.
For five minutes, I wasn't a tired prep cook or a frustrated son. I was the King. I was unguardable.
"Get to work," I reprimanded myself.
I sat back down at the laptop. I typed. I researched. I fought the heaviness in my eyelids. 3:30 AM. 4:15 AM. The sky outside the window began to turn a bruised purple.
"Just... rest my eyes for a second," I mumbled. I crossed my arms on the table and put my head down. Just for a minute.
…
"Damien? Damien!"
The voice was shrill, piercing through the fog of sleep. I jerked awake, my neck screaming in protest. The apartment was bright. Too bright. The sun was blazing through the window, casting long, afternoon shadows across the floor.
"What..." I blinked, disoriented. I looked at the clock on the microwave. 1:45 PM.
"Shit!" I scrambled up, my chair screeching against the floor. "Shit, shit, shit!"
My mother was standing in the kitchen doorway. She looked rough. Her mascara was smeared under her eyes, stark against her pale skin. She was shorter than me now, fragile looking, but with that defiant tilt to her chin that always drove me crazy. She was clutching her purse like a shield.
"Where were you?" I demanded, my voice thick with sleep and anger. "I came home at 2:00 AM and Tyson was alone, watching TV!"
She flinched, but then her eyes narrowed. "Don't you start with me, Damien. I was working."
"Working?" I scoffed. "At 2:00 AM? Until the afternoon? What kind of work is that, Mom?"
"The kind that pays the rent!" she shouted back. She ripped open her purse and pulled out a wad of cash—crumpled twenties and fifties. She threw them onto the table next to my laptop. "There! I was meeting a rich client. He paid well. Are you happy now?"
I looked at the money. It made me sick. "I don't care about the money if Tyson ends up hurt!" I yelled, stepping toward her. "He's seven years old! He could have started a fire. He could have choked. Anything could have happened! What use is the money if Tyson were to die in your absence?"
She looked away, her lower lip trembling, but she refused to back down. "He's a smart kid. And I knew you were coming home. I had faith you would be there. I knew you wouldn't let him down."
That was the dagger. She weaponized my responsibility. She used my competence as an excuse for her negligence.
I sighed, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a cold, heavy exhaustion. I didn't say anything more. There was no point.
Then, the time registered again. 1:50 PM.
The match against Anderson started at 2:00 PM.
"I'm late," I whispered. Then I roared, "I'm late!"
I grabbed my gym bag, stuffing my jersey inside. I didn't even have time to shower. I storm past her, grabbing an apple from the bowl.
"Damien, wait—"
I slammed the door on her voice.
I sprinted to the bus stop, my unlaced sneakers slapping against the pavement. I rounded the corner just in time to see the tail lights of the bus fading into the distance.
"No!" I yelled, kicking the signpost.
I checked my pockets. Empty. I had left my wallet on the table next to the cash she threw. I didn't have enough money for a cab.
Anderson High was three miles away.
I looked down the street. I tightened the straps of my bag. I tied my shoes.
"Run," I told myself.
I took off.
I ran. I ran through the heat of the afternoon, the sun beating down on me. I ran through the exhaustion, the lack of sleep, the hunger. My legs, already heavy from standing for ten hours yesterday, screamed with every stride. My lungs burned.
This is the warmup, I lied to myself. This is just conditioning.
I imagined Naird. I imagined him there, fresh, rested, probably having eaten a balanced breakfast prepared by his perfect parents. I imagined him thinking I wasn't coming. Thinking I was scared.
"Not today, hotshot," I panted, picking up the pace.
I cut through parks, jaywalked across busy avenues, vaulted over a low fence. I was sweating profusely, my shirt clinging to my back, my dreadlocks heavy and damp.
I could see the school in the distance. I checked my watch. 2:30 PM. Halftime.
I pushed harder, my vision swimming slightly. I burst through the front gates of Anderson High, ignoring the security guard who shouted at me. I knew where the gym was.
I hit the double doors of the gymnasium with my shoulder, bursting into the cool, air-conditioned gym.
The buzzer sounded.
The scoreboard read: Palisades 27, Anderson 25.
My team was walking off the court, looking tired. Steve looked like he was about to throw up. Naird was there, toweling off, looking in control.
I walked onto the court, my chest heaving, sweat dripping from my face, my eyes bloodshot and wild.
Steve saw me first. His relief was palpable. "D!"
Naird turned. He saw me. He saw the state I was in.
He walked up to me. "Damien? You okay?"
I held my hand up, stopping him. I couldn't talk. I needed air. I needed to get these street clothes off.
"I know," I rasped, my voice sounding like gravel. "I just need five minutes."
I walked past him to the locker room to change.
I was here. I was tired. I was angry. And I was about to take it all out on this court.
The locker room door swung shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the gym. The sudden silence was heavy, amplifying the ringing in my ears and the pounding of my own heart.
I leaned back against the cold metal lockers, sliding down until I hit the bench. My legs trembled, a violent, involuntary reaction to the sprint, the lack of sleep, the double shift. I was changing, peeling off the sweat-soaked hoodie and the stiff jeans, my movements sluggish and clumsy. Every muscle fiber felt stretched to its breaking point.
I pulled on my jersey. It felt light, breathable. It felt like armor.
My stomach gave a painful, hollow growl, a reminder that I hadn't eaten a real meal in almost twenty-four hours. I grabbed my gym bag, rummaging through the tangle of textbooks and chef's whites until my fingers closed around a crinkled wrapper.
It was an energy bar. It was old, probably flattened at the bottom of the bag for a week, but right now, it looked like a steak dinner. I tore it open and promptly stuffed it into my mouth, barely chewing, swallowing the dry oats and chocolate chips in huge, desperate gulps. I had been feeling hungry since last night. The sugar hit my bloodstream like a jolt of electricity.
I dragged myself to the sink. I turned the tap on cold and splashed water onto my face, gasping as the chill hit my skin. I did it again, scrubbing at my eyes, trying to wash away the red, the exhaustion, the image of my mother's smeared mascara.
I looked in the mirror. The dark circles were still there, but the eyes above them were sharpening. The exhaustion was still a weight on my shoulders, but I shoved it down, locking it away in a box marked "Later." Right now, I had a job to do. I had a team that was counting on me. And I had a freshman who thought he could run my show better than me.
I cupped my hands under the faucet and drank some water, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
"Time to go to work," I whispered.
I wiped my face with a paper towel, balled it up, and banked it off the wall into the trash can. Swish.
I turned and finally made my way back onto the court. I pushed the doors open, and the noise of the gym washed over me. I wasn't tired anymore. I was dangerous.