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Our tour ends on the court, where the team is getting warmed up for practice.
“This is Clayton Wade. As you’ve heard, we acquired him yesterday in a trade. You’ll miss Kyle, but come the postseason, Clay’ll be your new best friend.”
There are a few nods, but mostly the group is silent and composed.
Fine by me. I’m here to work.
Their point guard, Isaac, steps up and claps me on the back. “Welcome to LA. We’ll try to go easy on you the first day.”
We line up to start drills.
They’ll give me a locker and new stuff, but for now, I’m in Nike.
There are new formations, plays and coverages specific to each individual team. This year in Denver, I’ve appreciated learning the ins and outs that allow other guys to contribute.
“I’ll get up to speed on those soon,” I tell one of the coaches as I sit to catch my breath and watch the others run a defensive sequence.
“Or we’ll cut them if they don’t suit your style.”
Isaac, on the court nearby, overhears. His grin fades.
They have an unfair number of stars, especially with me. They have an A-list fan base—everyone from Tyler Adams to Harrison King sits courtside—and winning with style is what matters.
With that come egos.
No matter how many guys want to be the best, there’s only one ball.
I line up again to run the next drill. Isaac comes over to guard me.
“You found a place to live yet?” He asks it so casually I’m not sure he’s addressing me.
“My girl’s looking—”
Before I can finish, the ball goes up.
Isaac gets to it first, darting past me and taking it to the hoop for a layup. A few guys shout their approval, and Isaac jogs back.
“Sorry, man. Couldn’t help it,” he says easily.
It’s irritating, but I brush it off.
“Today,” I finish as we set up again. “She’s looking today.”
The ball goes up. This time I get it, hitting him harder than necessary as I grab the ball, and take it up the court, flipping it to another teammate to dunk. He nods after, a cool thank-you I return.
“I dunno how you deal with it. Thad”—he nods to one of the other guys—“was saying how his girl does nothing but complain about all the shit she wants, that he’s never home, all that crap. Not cool when you’re carrying everything. No way that doesn’t affect your game.”
It’s not straight trash talk, but he’s calling me out.
“You’re single,” I guess.
“Hell yeah. I can think about all that after I retire.” Isaac shakes his head as we change to another drill.
I’m not a defensive specialist, but there’s no way I’m letting Isaac score. I slide in front of him, setting my feet to absorb the charge as he tries to fight his way to the basket. Isaac’s charging six-five collides with my blocking six-five.
I go down hard.
The floor slams into me as I land on my hip and knee. Pain radiates from both joints, and I grind my teeth.
