Losing to Win (3 page)

 

 

I
t took over an hour to extricate myself from all the Belle Haven well-wishers who wanted to chat me up, relive old times, thank me for doing the show, and generally just have a moment of my time. Then there was the matter of a short meeting with Pierre, my best friend and agent. Pierre Picard had been a business marketing major at LSU, one year ahead of me when I showed up on campus. Originally from Beaumont, Texas, his family had deep roots in Cajun country. Pierre was also popular on campus, tall and good-looking in an old-school Billy Dee Williams kind of Idris Elba way. He was heavily into student politics and president of his fraternity. While most people on campus were kissing up and trying to be my friend, Pierre just nodded an acknowledgment and kept moving. We met the first time Carissa came to campus. I was running late, and by the time I caught up with her, she was sitting in the lobby of my dorm talking to Pierre as if they'd known each other forever. I gave him my best “mess with my woman and answer to me” look. He just laughed, thanked Carissa for a pleasant conversation, and walked away. For some reason, that impressed me. I sought him out, realized he was probably about the most business-savvy guy I'd ever met, and asked him to be my agent on the spot. He not only became my advocate in all things business but a good friend to me as well. He was the one who approached me with the idea to do the show, and though it was unconventional, I could definitely see using this as a vehicle to get back to where I wanted to be.

By the time I turned onto Climbing Rose Lane, I was still struggling to digest all that had happened in the past few weeks.

Regardless of some current opinions, I wasn't a bad guy. Really. I was just a guy who had lost his way and was trying to get back on track. Everything in my world was up the air. It was good to pull into the driveway and see that some things stayed just as you'd expect.

My childhood home had looked the same for as long as I could remember. It was a tidy-looking, blue double-gallery-style house with wraparound porches on both stories. Painted iron railings of stark white adorned the house. Large windows facing north and south gleamed as though freshly cleaned. The stucco and brick structure had outlasted many a storm and attempts at destruction by me and my younger brother, Meshach. The house still stood as a stately and serene haven in front of the rolling acres behind it.

I rolled to a stop at the curve in the paved portico of my parents' home to see my father sitting on the aged walnut rocker on the front porch. Before I'd climbed out of the rental SUV, my mother stepped outside to join him. My parents were good, Southern, salt-of-the-earth, shoot-straight people. No matter how famous, wealthy, or worldly I became, they stayed the same: rock solid, rooted in Christian values, tolerant, full of unconditional love and steady advice.

Henry and Valentine Knight looked at me with equal parts love and censure. My father was about five foot nine and my mother stood five foot seven in heels. They were both slight and slender. Where he was light, she was dark. They complemented each other in every way. He liked to say she was the cookies to his cream, both in looks and personality. Henry once shared with me that he still woke up every day tickled to be married to the woman of his dreams.

They said I was a throwback to my grandfather, a Chickasaw warrior who stood well over six foot tall in his prime. My father, a mostly retired small-town doctor, had taken to dressing in dark jeans and a button-down denim shirt with lace-up boots. My mother, a fully retired schoolteacher, was dressed per usual: as if she expected a tea party to commence at any minute. Today's pleated silk dress was in a soft shade of green. Pearls winked at her neck and ears.

“Boy, what the hell was you thinkin'? Settin' that gal up like this?” My father's distinctive drawl reached me before he did.

I put my hands up. “I had no idea they were going to spring it on her like that, Dad. Believe me, the last place I want to be is in Carissa Wayne's doghouse.”

“You mean farther into the doghouse, don't you, son?” My mother laughed as I picked her up and spun her around, kissing her noisily on the cheek. She patted her short curly hair as I set her down.

Henry cackled gleefully when I picked him up and gave him the same treatment. “What's farther out than the doghouse, Malachi? The outhouse?” He slapped me on the back a few times and I set him down with a grin.

“Maybe under the house, I don't know,” I sheepishly acknowledged. “But Ms. Wayne clearly has nothing good to say about or to me. Did you see how she looked at me when I walked out on that stage? Whew. That death glare she sent me clearly broadcasted her wish that I was anywhere but near her and preferably six feet under.”

“Whose fault is that, son?” my parents asked at the same time.

“Don't double-team me. The fault is probably 70 percent on my side and 30 percent on hers.”

“You gonna fix it this time?” Valentine asked with a raised brow as we walked into the house.

I followed her into the huge, recently renovated kitchen and sat down at the granite island. She handed me a glass of iced tea and I took a deep sip while I thought about Carissa and trying to “fix” the situation. Nothing quite like cool, sweet minty tea in the South. It was simple and expected. Unlike the issues between me and my former intended.

The rift between me and Carissa was multifaceted and complex in nature. It wasn't easily categorized as “we didn't want the same things”; it was a complete breakdown of communication, goals, and trust. It was messy and I had enough on my plate without diving into messy right now. When I'd said it was 70 percent my fault, that might have been too conservative. I still didn't fully understand what I'd done to make her leave, but the fact that she had left without a backward glance didn't sit well with me. Yeah, it was messy and nothing I cared to share with my parents. “I don't know, Ma. One: I'm not sure if I
can
fix it after all this time. Two: It might be best to leave that water under the bridge. And three: She won't want me to even try and repair our problems if things work out the way I think they will.”

My parents exchanged glances and sat down across from me awaiting an explanation.

“You both know when I got injured, I wasn't ready to quit.” An understatement if ever there was one. My entire life up until two years ago had been about the chase of a Super Bowl ring. Until that point, I was a Pro Bowl wide receiver for one of the league's elite teams. I was one of those guys who had played football since the age of six and been successful at every level. I won a high school state championship followed by an easy leap to a Division 1A college with a full scholarship. My sophomore team was the one that brought the Rose Bowl trophy back to Louisiana. I was runner up in the Heisman Trophy balloting in my junior year; supposedly I was a shoo-in to win it the following year, but I opted to leave and take my chances in the NFL.

Chosen as the only first-round draft pick of the Houston Stars, it was a challenge to find myself on an expansion team that wasn't supposed to go far. I was single minded in my pursuit of greatness. I wanted to break all the records, sign the most endorsements, and get my name mentioned with the greats. If I neglected Carissa or took her for granted along the way, well, I figured that's what it took to be great. She knew I loved her and that if I kept pushing the wedding date back, it had nothing to do with how I felt about her. I thought she and I had all the time in the world to be together, but the shelf life of an NFL athlete is short. It took eight years to get there, but the high-powered Houston Stars offense had arrived at the conference championship game only to come up three yards short of the Super Bowl in the last forty seconds.

The whole team imploded in the aftermath. My quarterback left, the running back quit to find himself, the coaches were fired, and a front-office shuffle began. The team was just pulling back together during a preseason game when The Incident happened. The details are hotly debated to this day. I believe I was the victim of a cheap-shot defensive back; others say I landed wrong. Either way, I tore both my MCL and my ACL. All of the specialists said it was a career-ending injury. I never announced my retirement; I just faded out of the spotlight. I isolated myself, packed on weight, and basically wallowed in self-pity for about a year. The only person I reached out to was Carissa. And by that time, she wasn't having it or hearing it. Not from me.

One night, after refusing to sign a fan's T-shirt, I overheard him calling me a “fat washed-up coulda-been” and it hurt. Insults that ring a little true often do. So I started rehabbing and getting myself together, making plans for the future. According to the specialist, the knee was at 95 percent. I had less than forty pounds left to lose.

I looked across at my parents and made my announcement. “I know the show is kinda stupid, but it accomplishes a few things for me. I want to use the exposure to show the league that I can come back. This could be my shot. I'm thirty-three years old. Most receivers are hanging up their cleats by now. I want one last shot at that ring. I want to go back.”

“To the NFL?” my father asked with a small smile on his face.

“Yes, why are you smiling like that?”

He shrugged. “What took you so long?”

I threw my head back and laughed. “I could never surprise you. I needed to be mentally and physically ready. I needed to make sure I could make a real run at it without making a fool of myself. When I was sitting on my sofa well over three hundred pounds, I wasn't ready. I talked to Pierre; he says the Stars will give me a walk-on tryout whenever I'm ready. We're shooting for mid-August.” Pierre wouldn't let me take this shot if he didn't think I could do it. He had stood beside me when no one else but my family could stand listening to me.

Valentine came around and took my big hand in between her softer, smaller ones. “Mal, we only want you to be happy. If trying to play again makes you happy, so be it. But son, wasn't your NFL lifestyle one of the reasons you and Carissa split?”

I was not getting into that aspect of our breakup with my mother. Not today, not ever. “Like I said, Mom: I don't know if I can fix things with Cari.”

She squeezed my hands. “Since you were a teenager, you've talked about two things you wanted in life. One was to win a Super Bowl and the other was to marry Rissa Wayne. And I gotta say, it doesn't sound to me like you're 100 percent ready to give up either dream yet. Don't lose one holding onto the other.”

Not knowing what else to say, I nodded and changed the subject. “Are you two ready for the bright lights of Hollywood to shine down on Climbing Rose Lane?”

My father sucked his teeth in disgust. “Boy, this is some damn foolishness you've dragged us into this time. Some woman came around and asked if I was going to need extra time for makeup on shooting days. Do I look like the kind of man who will allow them to put makeup on me?”

I smothered a chuckle. “No, sir, you surely don't.”

My mom nodded her approval. “I think it will be good for the town. Goodness knows we could use the revenue.”

“That's the other reason I agreed to do it. Doesn't hurt to give a little something back to Belle Haven. This town has been good to me. If having Hollywood folks following us around for a few months brings in a few dollars, the better for it.”

Dad looked skeptical and shrugged. “I certainly hope this all works out, Mal. For you, Carissa, and the town.”

“Me too, Dad.” More important, I hope it didn't all blow up on a nationally televised stage. Even at our best, Carissa and I were a combustible combination. Add in lights, cameras, and action, and it could go thermonuclear in no time. “Me too.”

 

 

I
t had been a few hours, sixteen phone calls, half a sandwich, and a generous glass of wine since I'd been ambushed onstage at Havenwood. In that time, I'd spoken to family, friends, the mayor, half the town council, and almost everyone I'd ever passed on the streets of Belle Haven. My home phone was unplugged and I became really comfortable letting my cell phone calls go to voice mail. That “ignore” feature was a miracle of modern science.

I sat at my kitchen table and enjoyed the relative calm before the upcoming storm. The past few hours should have acted as a cooling-off period, soothing my nerves and giving me some perspective. But it was not enough time to prepare myself for the imminent arrival of Malachi Knight.

Malachi Henry Knight. The only man I'd ever really loved and the only one who I'd thought really loved me back, ever since I was fifteen years old. We had broken up and gotten back together more times that I cared to admit. At last count, maybe . . . eight times? Not sure; some of the breakups were just breaks. There was one semester where we were sort of broken up until he realized that meant I could see other people too. He showed up on the Howard campus during pledge week and announced in the middle of the quad, “This is my woman. Touch her, and me and my boys are coming for that ass.” That took care of me seeing other people for a while. The men at Howard were brave—bold, even—but not stupid. Who wanted to take on the front line of the LSU Tigers because of one semi-cute ex-cheerleader? Malachi 1, Men of Howard 0.

Think the ladies of LSU afforded me the same respect? Hell no. For as long as Mal and I had been together, there was always a contingent of thirsty-assed women trying to get a long good sip of Knight water. For a little while, we'd had an unspoken rule: As long as we were apart and his “extracurricular activity” was not in my face and I didn't hear about it, so be it. I wasn't naive enough to believe that Malachi was staying faithful and true to me while he was in Baton Rouge and I was in DC, but later, when I packed up and moved to Houston, I expected—no, I demanded—a cease and desist of all nefarious shenanigans with other women.

To this day, I don't know for sure if he cheated. But he damn sure didn't act like a man with a fiancée. And that was just problem number one. Number two was his tunnel vision about winning a Super Bowl. Nothing was as important—not me, not our wedding (that kept getting postponed), not our future, nothing. Number three was the fact that he didn't want me to work because that would “look bad” to his teammates. And number four, the killer, was what fame, stardom, and the NFL lifestyle had done to Mal. He became a persona—no longer my sweet best friend Mal, but “MALACHI KNIGHT, NFL Superstar!” His very presence was punctuated by exclamation points. There was nowhere we could go and nothing we could do without people wanting to be dazzled by him, and he was happy to oblige. This still could have been okay; I could have worked around it . . . except that he started believing his own press. When he was on that field, he was larger-than-life Number 84. When he was at home, I needed him to be just my man. But he couldn't or wouldn't be just Mal. He didn't know how or he didn't like to turn it off, at times treating me like more of an accessory than a future life mate. As he grew, I shrank.

Living together was a period of adjustment for both of us. But I wanted and needed a life outside of being the future Mrs. Number 84. He wanted and needed me to be the obedient little woman who didn't make waves, ask questions, or slow his roll. I put up with it for five years, telling myself that this was what it took to be with him. And wasn't it worth anything to be with Mal?

I'd known Mal almost all of my life and had loved him since high school, before I even knew what love was. In spite of any other ambitions I had for myself, my primary life goal had been marrying Malachi Knight, having two or three kids, and living happily ever after. Through all the suspected other women, the neglect, and the attitude, I still believed in my heart of hearts that he was worth it. This was Mal, after all. The guy who'd held me when I cried over my father's callous indifference, encouraged me to go to Howard when I would've followed him to LSU, and been my best friend for as long as I could remember. All of my best memories to that point were wrapped up in Mal. No matter how unhappy I was, I knew that one day our life was going to turn back into the fairy tale we were destined to live. I was proven wrong when it all came to a head the night after his first playoff win.

I was waiting for Mal in the players' parking lot beside his new Mercedes. We had plans to meet Taylor and Mac as well as Ruby and her husband, Renard, at our favorite little Cajun spot near the Galleria. They had all come to town for the game. I was so excited about the win and proud of his performance that night. He'd caught ten passes for over one hundred yards and scored twice. It was a career night. I didn't mind waiting because I was positive he was swarmed with press. Mal was worth the inconvenience and the wait.

The sun had set and a breeze had kicked in from the east when I realized that it was getting late. The parking lot emptied out one car at a time and still I stood waiting on him. Finally, I sent a text. Hey All Star, I'm waiting. You almost done?

He sent a text back almost immediately. Went out with some of the guys. C U L8R.

I stood there staring at the phone in disbelief. He knew we had my friends and family in town but chose to go hang out with some teammates without letting me know? Really? I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I texted back. We have plans with Belle Haven peeps. Meet us at the restaurant?

He wrote back. Can C them anytime. Make my excuses.

I pressed the icon to dial him. I needed to hear this from his voice. The phone rang twice and then went to voice mail. Since he had texted me less than thirty seconds before, I knew this meant he'd hit the IGNORE button. I dialed three more times and the same thing happened. I leaned against the car and let that sink in. The love of my life, my future husband, my MAN had hit the IGNORE button so he could hang out with guys he saw every day.

I sent a text. R U srsly not answering?

Ris, can't argue now. This is important.

So is this.

We just won.

I know. I was right here supporting U and watching U like always. R U coming?

I'm not coming.

Wow.

Grow up & live outside my shadow 4 1 nt.

Something inside of me cracked right at that moment. Broke everything I thought and believed into jagged pieces inside of me. He wanted me to live outside his shadow? I never asked to be
in
it.
This
was what our life was going to be about? I sat around looking cute, waiting for him to come home, and planning for a wedding that never happened while he hung out with his boys and did God knew what?

Okay, I reasoned, maybe I should have made my growing unease and displeasure clear a long time ago. Maybe I shouldn't have let it get this far. But enough was enough. I worshipped him and he disrespected me? Hell no. He may have been MALACHI KNIGHT, but I was Carissa Wayne, by God. Former valedictorian, prom queen, and winner of the Beleiux County Fair Beauty Pageant for three years in a row. I was a beautiful, degreed black woman with a brain in her head, ambition in her soul, and far more self-respect than my day-to-day existence reflected. I was not one of Malachi Knight's damn groupies. What I was, as of that very moment? Done.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Knight?” the security guard called out and headed toward me. He was ready to go home and I was holding him up. I waved at him to let him know I was okay and dug in my purse for the keys to Mal's car. Mrs. Knight, my ass, I thought angrily. I drove to the restaurant on emotional autopilot. My friends and family took one look at my face when I entered the dining area and it was instantly evident to them that something had gone wrong.

“Where's Mal?” Ruby asked with alarm, searching the space behind me for my absent fiancé.

I laughed shortly. “Out with the boys, I guess. He says he wants me to stand outside of his shadow for one night.”

Taylor gasped. “The hell?”

Mac sucked his teeth. “That boy has lost his damn mind.”

Ruby went right to the heart of the matter. “What do you want to do, Rissa?”

What did I want? That was a damn good question. I took a deep breath and really thought about it for a second. Immediately, the answers popped into my mind. “I want to leave Mal. I want to go home. I want to go back to school. I want to go back to being about the business of Carissa Wayne and I want to do it tonight. Right now.”

They all exchanged glances as if they had known this moment was coming. Renard was the first to stand up. “Let's go get started.”

Four hours later, when Malachi strolled into our Tuscan-style, six-thousand-square-foot home in Hunters Creek Village, I'd already sent six suitcases and four boxes ahead with Ruby. Two additional suitcases were in the trunk of the car. I'd turned down Mac, Taylor, and Renard's offer to stick around and kick Malachi's ass. I was sitting in the den in the dark with my overnight bag and my purse.

“Mal,” I said quietly from the plush navy wingback chair I'd lovingly designed and custom ordered for this room.

He spun around at my voice. “Hey babe. What are you doing up? You didn't have to wait up for me.”

“Yeah. I got that. I wasn't waiting up. I was waiting to leave.”

His brows shot up. “Leave?” He spotted the suitcase at my feet. “Where are you headed? It's the playoffs!”

If I'd had any doubts about leaving, that did it. “It's the playoffs for you. For me, it's just another long lonely winter.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go. Here's the ‘how Mal done Rissa wrong' song.”

“Nope, no tunes left to sing. I'm going home.”

“To Belle Haven?”

I stood up. “Yes.”

“For how long?”

I slid off the seven-carat, emerald-cut canary diamond ring I had never liked and set it on the coffee table. “Forever, I guess.”

“Just like that? After all this time? 'Cause I wouldn't hang out with your crew tonight?”

“Mal, if you really think I'm leaving because you were an insensitive ass
tonight
, you are further out of touch than I thought.”

“Come on, Rissa. I've had a long day. Let's get some sleep and talk about it in the morning.” His eyes searched mine and he held his hand out, expecting me to take his in acquiescence.

I slapped my hand down on the arm of the chair in exasperation. He still didn't get it. “What happened to the guy who refused to let us go to sleep angry with each other? What happened to the guy who drove all night to come see me and make sure I was okay because I was a little homesick? What happened to the guy who said he was happiest when I was happy? Where has that guy gone? Where was he tonight?”

“Babe, I'm right here. I love you. You know me.” He lowered his voice and stepped toward me. It was his BCTB (Baby Come To Bed) voice. It usually worked on me. A few words in that voice, a kiss here, a touch there, and I generally melted like butter. Not this time. The stakes were too high. Enough was enough.

“Malachi. Don't. You're not hearing me! You've become someone I don't know, don't like very much, and can't remember why I loved. You've taken me for granted and I allowed you to. We've been engaged for six years. Six years!? That's ridiculous. I gave up my life, my career, and, well . . . me! I've been trying to be someone that I thought you wanted and it turns out that you don't really care that much about who I am. I'm like your car or this house or one of your big shiny watches. If this is how you love me, I do not want. It's enough. I'm done.”

Something in my rant finally registered with him and he understood how serious the situation was. He clicked on one of the floor lamps and took a second to really look at me. Astonished, he blurted out, “You're seriously walking out now. Tonight. With everything I have going on?”

“Okay. You still don't get it. For once, Mal, it's not about you. It's not about the playoffs. I'm done and I'm leaving. Oh, and I'm taking the new Benz. I've earned it.”

He assessed me silently as if to see whether I was sticking to my guns or backing down. “You're going to regret this.”

I smiled humorlessly, stood up, and picked up my overnight bag. “No, I won't. Or hell, maybe I will. Either way, it's done. I've spent enough time regretting decisions. You, however? You're going to miss the hell out of me, Malachi Knight. I'm sorry I won't be around to see you figure out that football is not your whole life; it's just the way you pay for the rest of it.”

“Football is everything. You never understood that for me.”

“I know you better than you know yourself. You never understood that football is for now. Marriage and family is forever. I want the forever. I wanted it with you. It's what you promised me and I shouldn't have to beg for pieces of it.”

He raised his hands in agitation. “No one is stopping you from having your perfect forever! You can have all of it. We'll get married, have kids, you can teach, buy that old house in Belle Haven you've always wanted. We'll do all of it. Just give me a little more time,” he argued.

His actions had spoken louder than these words I'd heard before. “You've had plenty of time and it hasn't helped. You realize you didn't answer my phone calls tonight? That's what we've become. What I am to you. I've become so disposable to you that you can hit the IGNORE button three times in a row, knowing you left me standing in a dark parking lot waiting on you. And for what?”