Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

Kenya’s sleep-rusty chuckle comes from the other end of the line, and if I know my sister, she’s laughing from the depths of her down comforter.

“Shiiiiiit,” she says. “You know I’m still in bed, but I scored thirty points last night so I should be excused.”

“I saw your highlights on ESPN.” I lean against the counter, the marble cool against my naked skin while I navigate the apps on my phone. “Not bad for a girl.”

Only I could get away with that taunt. Anyone else would be flat on his ass in seconds. My sister is one of the WNBA’s most promising athletes, and could hold her own with most of the guys I play against.

“You joke about it,” Kenya says, her voice losing some of its humor, “but my paycheck says people believe that shit.”

“I know, Ken. I wish I could do more.”

“Keep speaking out. You and the other leaders in the Player’s Association doing that is huge. People need to know it’s not just us demanding more money, but that you guys believe we deserve it, too.”

“It’ll take time,” I say, pulling up the app to turn on my ice tub. “We’ll keep moving forward, but we got a long way to go.”

“When our number-one draft pick makes fifty thousand a year and your number one makes six million,” Kenya says, with a justifiable sharpness in her voice. “Yeah, we have a long way to go. I know we don’t bring in the same revenue, but we’re not even compensated equably for what we do generate.”

I walk to the rear of my spacious, if temporary, bathroom, and consider the ice tub with familiar dread.

“Damn, this never gets easier,” I mutter, lowering myself into the icy water.

“You icing?” Kenya asks, a wince in her words.

“Yeah, we had an ice tub installed in the New York apartment since I’ll be here all summer.”

The benefits of cryotherapy—decreased fatigue, quicker muscle recovery, less anxiety, improved performance and a dozen others—far outweigh how much it sucks to submerge your body in arctic water.

“What are you eating?” Kenya asks. “I know you didn’t drag that chef with you to the East Coast.”

“He refused to leave Cali,” I say with a laugh, breathing easier as my body adjusts to the cold. “But he did recommend someone out here who delivers my meals to keep me on point this summer. I can’t show up at training camp with a gut.”

“A gut.” Kenya’s hearty laugh makes me laugh, too. “You never had a gut a day in your life.”

“And I don’t plan to.”

“Man, with the way you live, you could play till you’re fifty.”

“God, please, no.”

“You’re not ready to throw in the towel yet, are you?” Surprise colors her voice because with my conditioning, most expect me to play for another four years or so. I’m not so sure.

“It’s not my body that’s tired. Maybe it’s my mind. I don’t know, Ken. I been at this for a long time. I want to do some other things, including spend more time with Simone.”

“How is my niece? Still spoiled rotten?”

“She’s not spoiled.”

Kenya lets her silence speak for her.

“Okay,” I concede with a chuckle. “She may be a little spoiled, but she’s a good kid.”

“Still no interest in ball?” There’s despair in Kenya’s tone. Even in college I still thought I would be a lawyer one day, but my sister has always known she would be a baller. She has high hopes for Simone, too.

“She’s sticking with ballet.”

“Hey, ballerinas are athletes, too,” Kenya says. “I’ll take it.”

I sink lower into the icy water, letting it reach all the places that will ache from my strenuous workout if I don’t. “Her new school has a great program, and she seems committed.”