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I’ll forget about filing a lawsuit against you in exchange for an exclusive.
I’d laughed it off, telling him he was reaching.
Oh, come off of it, Peters. You quit the NBA at the height of your career and then invest a load of cash into building Papa’s Kids in honor of Cayo Torres. Meanwhile, you rarely mention your old man and he’s as tight-lipped about your lack of relationship as you are. After all your fame, you suddenly just fade into the background. And you expect me to believe there’s no story here.
I struggled to keep my cool.I don’t give a fuck what you believe.
Tough words, he’d taunted.But everyone has a weak spot.
And he had honed in on mine.
I checked around and guess what I found? A friend of Alexandra Townsen’s. A woman you couldn’t seem to keep your hands off of. My source told me about the intimate dances…the passionate kiss. And most interesting of all, she’s said not to be your usual type.
It will make interesting headlines. Micah Peters, Closet Chubby Chaser.
I’d seethed, holding on to my temper by a frayed thread—my fists clenched, my knuckles white with the roaring urge to beat every breath out of him. Only bringing more trouble to my family had held me back.
I walked away and went home to Dee. I couldn’t tell her. Our renewed relationship was barely twenty-four hours old. She was already wary of any publicity, and skeptical that we could make this work. I wasn’t going to add to her doubts.
Restless and on edge, I get dressed and head out for a run. Brockville is a charming, middle-class neighborhood. Older style homes and bungalows bordered by large trees sit close to the lake, then give way to modern low rises and brownstones. Its appeal has attracted an influx of young professionals seeking living space outside of the city.
The waterfront is empty at this hour and I’m alone on the path that hugs the shore. I lose the cap, but keep on the shades. Near my downtown condo, I usually jog around Lincoln Park at night to avoid recognition. I’ve missed this, running in the morning with the sun on my face.
Ten miles—the fresh lake air fills my lungs, the pound of my shoes on the pavement blocks out my thoughts. When I return, I slip my cap back on and get out the lawn mower I find in the garage next to my car that’s hidden inside from view. Another precaution I’ve taken.
After the lawn is mowed, I trim the hedges and repair the leaky faucet in the laundry room. Things I can do, fix, control.
After I’m out of chores, I take a shower and pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater. While downing a protein shake, I finally listen to the string of ignored calls from my agent: Beckett “Let’s Make a Deal” MacAllister—a man to whomnois merely a challenge.
I tap the screen to call him back. After ten years, I owe him that courtesy.
“What the fuck, Mick? I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend. ESPN is on my ass for a meeting time.”
“It’s not going to happen, Mackie.”
“Goddammit.” He erupts in a bout of barking coughs that reverberate through the phone.
“I thought you quit.”
“You’ll kill me long before the cigarettes ever do.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m serious, man.” He hacks up another lung. “You gave up the NBA against my better advice. But okay, wear and tear on the body, all the travel, time for a change. Then you turned down offers to coach pro ball and to be the spokesperson for a line of men’s products that would have garnered you and me a small fortune. But, hey, buh-bye to another lucrative contract. You told me you wanted to focus on this thing with homeless and abused kids, so I left you to lay low for a while…do what you needed to get over your grief.
“But it’s been five months, man. This is a talk show deal with a prime network…huge coin. They wantyou. You’ve got that X factor. Did you see the number of tweets and retweets from a picture of you coming out of the Lemon Lounge Friday night? You’re still a big draw, Mick. Great for ratings.”
“I don’t give a shit about ratings.”
“Well, ESPN does. Your face was made for the screen. Men will watch because they want to be just like you. And women will watch to cream their panties.”
“As flattering as that sounds,” I say sarcastically, “I’m out. Not just with ESPN. All of it. No more deals. I’m going to put my effort into building out Papa’s Kids and investing in businesses that pique my interest.”
“You’re just going to throw it all away to become an investor and philanthropist?” His tone is incredulous. “Everything we worked for down the drain. That’s batshit crazy, Mick.”
“Why? Lots of professional athletes follow that track after retirement.”
“But they aren’t Micah Peters. The public loves you. You look like a movie star and they eat that shit up. One call to the press and look how they come running. Like it or not, you’re a superstar. You can’t just walk away from that.”
