I pat him on the shoulder. “Dave.” Pausing, the two of us exhale a small laugh at my accidental use of Indy’s nickname for him. “David, if I do move, you and the family will have to come over to visit, yeah?”
“We’d love to.”
Harold parks right in front of my building and David opens the lobby door for me.
Keeping my head down, I sign a handful of autographs all while quickly continuing to the car. As soon as I’m safely inside, Harold takes off towards the practice facility where I’ll be rushed into yet another press conference before I’m even allowed to step foot on the court.
Resting my head back, I watch the city zoom by.
I haven’t slept much this week thanks to an overwhelming combination of missing Indy and regretting how I handled that morning a few days ago. I’m proud of her though. If I were an outsider looking in and saw the way I reacted to thinking she was pregnant, I’d want her to leave me too. She deserves to have everything she wants out of life, and a year ago, I’m not sure she would’ve been strong enough to walk away the way she did.
The last thing I want is for her to leave me, but I do love seeing her brave enough to stand up and demand what she wants.
But I am what she wants. I know without a shadow of a doubt that I am.
Now, if she could fucking call me and ask me to move in to the house with her, that’d be great.
She’s lived there for three days now and, yes, I’ve bombarded my sister with texts and calls. She doesn’t tell me much other than that my girlfriend is fine, so I try to leave it at that.
In our press conference, Ethan sits to one side of me and my coach to the other. It’s a nice reprieve to not be the only person behind the mic, but it doesn’t much matter, most every question is still being directed at me.
“Shay.” A reporter in the first row stands and speaks into the microphone. “How are you holding up under the pressure?”
“I don’t feel the pressure.”
Lie. Ethan watching me out of the corner of his eyes confirms that he knows I’m lying too.
“First potential playoff berth in six years if you can pull off the win tonight. You don’t feel any pressure?”
As always, I put on the mask. Calm. Cool. Collected.
“Nope.”
Another reporter stands. “What do you think it will say about your future in this game if you don’t make the playoffs this year? You’ve been in the league for five years now, and you’ve yet to lead your team into the postseason.
“I haven’t thought about it, seeing as I fully intend on us making the playoffs.”
The questions continue, and I couldn’t tell you my response to half of them.
“Since college, you’ve been referred to as the next Michael Jordan. At what point will fans stop making that comparison?”
“Do you think you’re adequately producing to justify the salary you’re bringing in?”
“Do you want a trade? There are stronger teams out there who would snatch you up in heartbeat if you became available. Do you think it may be best for Chicago to start fresh with younger talent?”
“Speaking of trades, do you think this is your last night in a Devils jersey if you can’t pull off the win?”
“No,” Ethan says into the microphone even though the question was directed at me. “He’s signed here for three more seasons. He’s not going anywhere. Anyone got a question for me? I’m here too, you know.”
A small chuckle settles among the crowd, taking some of the weight off my chest, but it doesn’t last long.
“Shay, do you feel the burden to be on at all times? To constantly be perfect?”
Ethan eyes me again before leaning forward to take over this press conference.
“Yes,” I say before he can stop me. “I feel the burden every day.”
Those words echo off the mic as the reporters go eerily quiet at my candor. I’ve never been so honest with the media in my life.
“I love this team and even more, I love this game. But for the past four seasons, part of me despised it. There’s been a constant pressure to not show any weaknesses, to not let you all know how scared I am to fail or to let this city down.”
The last reporter who asked a question takes a seat alongside his peers. Cameras continue to roll, and heads are buried in notepads as they jot down my statements.
Clearing my throat, I sit up and closer to the mic. “There’s this insane pressure in professional sports to be perfect at all times. To be a machine. I have thousands of people watching my every move to see if I’m worth my salary, and I can’t complain. I have the best job in the entire world, and I love our fans, but I am human. As much as I tried to convince myself I wasn’t, I am. I make mistakes. I have bad games. I miss important shots and I beat myself up over those failures more than any fan, coach, or GM would.”
Ethan adds an encouraging squeeze to my shoulder just as I catch Ron Morgan’s attention, standing in the back of the room.
“I’ve done some outrageous things to convince others I’m the right man for the job.” I take my eyes off Ron, returning them to the media. “And even more so, I convinced myself of things in order to believe I could be this machine who doesn’t lose his cool, who isn’t scared to fail. I’ve cut out friendships and relationships. I’ve isolated myself, and all it’s done is taken this game I love and turned it into something I resent.”
I clear my throat again when the room remains silent.
“My first two years in the league were some of the hardest of my life. Ticket sales were through the roof and my jersey was selling like crazy, so what’s there to complain about, right?” I chuckle a humorless laugh. “Fuck, those years sucked. I was in a dark place. Being new in the league was a wakeup call that I was no longer a man, simply an asset, and I didn’t handle the realization well at all. I’ve been lying to y’all for years. I feel the pressure every fucking day, but this season, for the first time in a long time, the game has been fun again.
“So, yes, I hope we win tonight, but the sun will still rise if we don’t. I’ll still have my family and friends and teammates if we don’t. And I hope I don’t get traded because I fucking love this team and I love this city, but that’s out of my control. So I’m going to go out there tonight and try my best while I have some fun with my guys.”
I stand from my seat, with a wave. “Thanks.”
There’s a blanket of noise behind me, reporters calling out my name, cameras flashing, but I don’t stop and turn around. I take off down the private hall blocked by security.
Ron enters into the hall through a side door. His back is to me, unknowing I’m behind him as he starts down the walkway.
“Mr. Morgan,” I call out, jogging to meet up with him. “Sir.”
He stops, turning on his dress shoes, his pressed suit perfectly in place.
“I apologize if what I said in there causes the organization any grief.”
He shakes his head, confused.
“I know that’s not really on brand for me to admit those things, but—”
“Thank God you finally did.” He laughs. “That’s the Ryan Shay I’ve been wanting people to see all these years. That’s the Ryan Shay I scouted out of college. It’s good to see him again.”