Chapter 1

Zion

The obnoxious buzz of my phone rattles against the marble nightstand like it’s trying to claw its way free. I crack one eye open, the thin slit of sunlight cutting across my face like a knife, and groan. Another notification. Then another. By the sound of it, Carter James has either started early or hasn’t slept at all.

I drag a heavy hand across my face before swiping the phone off the table. The screen lights up—dozen missed calls and one word from Carter in all caps: ANSWER.

With a sigh worthy of a tragic Greek hero, I sink back against the pillows and open the media app. The headline hits before the volume even kicks in.

MVP or PR Nightmare? Zion Carter’s Locker Room Blowup Goes Viral.

There I am again. Sweaty, stone-faced after that brutal overtime loss. Staring down some rookie reporter who thought it’d be smart to ask about my “commitment to the team’s future.”

On the screen, my mouth moves in perfect sync:
“Why don’t you worry about your future, kid? You’ve got about five minutes left in this job.”

The crowd noise cuts. Cameras flash. The legend grows. Again. I reach for the bowl of gummy bears on the nightstand—organized by color, as always. Greens are already missing, sacrificed to the trash where they belong. I pluck a red one from the top, pop it in, and chew slow, my eyes locked on my own smirking face plastered across every major sports network.

“That’s what they’re losing their minds over?” I mutter through a yawn, reaching for the orange ones next.

The phone vibrates violently in my hand—Carter again. This time FaceTime. I let it ring out, grinning as the next segment rolls, some overly dramatic pundit calling my outburst “career-threatening behavior.”

“Yeah,” I say under my breath, stretching wide like a man who’s slept through the apocalypse and doesn’t regret a damn thing. “They’re gonna love what I’ve got planned next.”

The condo’s front door slams open hard enough to shake the walls. I don’t even flinch. From my perch against the kitchen counter, I watch Carter storm in like a man personally carrying the weight of my bad decisions. His tie’s half-undone, stress ball already clutched in one white-knuckled fist.

“Do you have any idea the scale of the fire you’ve lit?!” he barks, pacing hard enough to wear a trench into my floors. He tosses that stress ball from palm to palm like he’s seriously debating throwing it at my head. “We’re not talking smoke and minor damage here, Zion. This is a five-alarm inferno burning through one hundred million dollars worth of clean image and corporate goodwill!”

I reach lazily for my coffee, black as sin and twice as bitter, and take a slow sip while his voice climbs another octave.

“Do you want me to read you the headlines?!”

With all the ceremony of a man filing his own resignation, Carter whips a folder onto the counter. Big bold letters stare back at me: PR REHABILITATION OPTIONS – URGENT.

I flip the folder open with one lazy finger. “Let me guess. Adopt a puppy. Cry on live TV. Marry a kindergarten teacher?”

Carter stops mid-pace and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s seconds from a nervous breakdown.

“Or…” I let my lips curl into that aggravating, press-perfect smirk. “We skip the tears, skip the dog, and you let me handle this my way.”

Carter lets out this laugh—half hysterical, half this man is gonna be the death of me. “Oh, you’ve handled it beautifully so far,” he snaps, the stress ball now practically a weapon. “And just so we’re clear, if you go viral one more time in the next twenty-four hours, I’m retiring and moving somewhere they’ve never heard the word basketball.”

I push the folder aside like it personally offended me and pop another red gummy bear. “Don’t worry, Carter. If we’re burning this thing down, might as well enjoy the fireworks.”

The TV cuts suddenly to a live feed. That’s when I see her. The headline scrolls across the bottom:
“Sports Culture or Sports Crisis? Dr. Kamari Westbrook Challenges the Industry Status Quo.”

Carter keeps pacing, but the room fades. I lock in on the woman at the podium. Not the usual academic type. No stiff suit or monotone lecture. She stands tall in this sapphire-blue dress that hugs curves completely out of place among a sea of gray blazers. Her curls are pulled back, but nothing about her feels restrained.

That voice. Clear. Commanding. Sharpened to a blade.

“…And we wonder why athletes crash and burn under the weight of impossible expectations. We glorify talent but vilify emotion. We celebrate dominance and dismiss vulnerability as weakness. And then, when our so-called ‘heroes’ unravel publicly, we act surprised. We built the stage. Don’t feign shock when the performance ends in flames.”

The room behind her goes dead quiet. Even through the screen, I feel it—that hum of absolute authority. I lean forward, elbows on the counter, narrowing my eyes.

“Who is that?” I mutter, dragging my tongue across my teeth.

Carter doesn’t hear me. He’s muttering about a villa in Spain and a full-time meditation guru. I don’t need his answer anyway. I’ve already found mine.

She tilts her chin like a challenge, eyes lit with defiance, and drops her final blow before stepping back from the podium:

“Don’t ask why the empire is burning if you ignored every smoke signal along the way.”

I let out a low whistle and reach for another gummy bear. “Well, damn,” I murmur, grinning slow. “Looks like someone came loaded for war.”

My phone lights up again, and this time it’s not Carter.

@CourtsideCritique has entered the chat.

I grin wider, leaning into the chaos. Opening the app, I scroll through the latest thread—sharp as a scalpel, each post more brutal than the last.

@CourtsideCritique: Nothing says emotional maturity like threatening a reporter after a loss. Love to see generational talent paired with frat boy behavior. Iconic, really.

Thousands of likes. Memes already circulating. One has my face photoshopped onto a tantrum-throwing toddler in a grocery store. That one almost makes me laugh out loud.

I should be pissed. But all I’m thinking is—this person is dangerous. Brilliant. And clearly having way too much fun at my expense.

There’s a rhythm to the sarcasm. Precision. They don’t just throw cheap shots; they land them like a sniper.

Without hesitation, I log into @Baseliner23 and fire back.

@Baseliner23:  Funny how you always have the loudest takes from the sidelines. Ever try playing the game before you built the podium?

I hit send and wait. Doesn’t take long.

@CourtsideCritique: I’m not here to play the game, you tool. I’m here to dismantle the rulebook you fellas like to hide behind.

I whistle again, low and appreciative, rubbing my hand along my jaw as my lips twitch.

“Oh, you’re good,” I mutter, already crafting my next response.

Carter’s voice slices back through the fog.

“For God’s sake, Zion, are you even listening to me? This is your career we’re talking about!”

I don’t even look up. My full attention is locked on the tiny war unfolding in my palm. I’m actually entertained.

Maybe—just maybe—a little intrigued.

Carter’s frustration reaches critical mass. He slams his palms onto the counter so hard the crystal fruit bowl rattles. The whole kitchen goes still like it’s waiting to see who survives the standoff.

“Enough!” he shouts, his voice cracking under the strain. His tie’s a noose now, forehead shining with a level of stress that’s probably a cardiovascular event waiting to happen. “You need to get serious, Zion. Do you even understand what’s at stake here?”

I finally glance up, slow and bored. “Lemme guess,” I say, sliding another red gummy bear between my teeth. “A hundred million dollars and your last fragile nerve?”

Carter’s left eye twitches. Just one precise, murderous little tick.

“Cute. Real cute,” he spits, reaching for that dreaded PR folder like it contains the nuclear codes. “But this isn’t a joke, and it isn’t optional anymore. You need a wholesome optics partnership. A steady, credible relationship with a woman who balances out your… shall we say… colorful public image.”

I arch a brow and roll the gummy bear around in my mouth like I’m tasting fine wine.

“A girlfriend, Carter? That’s your master plan?”

“Not a girlfriend,” he corrects, wagging a finger at me like I’m a toddler about to stick a fork in a socket. “A strategic companion. Someone intelligent. Respected. A woman who can survive five minutes with you without fantasizing about open windows and tall ledges. Think of it as… visual damage control.”

I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek, fighting back a full-on laugh. Strategic companionship. That’s a new one even for Carter.

Pushing off the counter, I wander over to the massive windows overlooking the skyline. Hands tucked into the pockets of my joggers, I take in the glittering expanse of the city like it’s already mine to burn down or rebuild at will.

“Fine,” I say at last, my voice low, measured. I turn just enough so the lights of the city catch the edge of my smirk. “But if I’m doing this, it’s on my terms.”

Carter groans like his soul is trying to physically leave his body. “Sweet mother of media control… what exactly do your terms look like?”

I pop another gummy bear, my eyes fixed on nothing in particular and everything at once.

“Simple,” I say, letting the word roll out slow and dangerous. “I pick her.”

The rest of Carter’s rant fades into background static. I’m already pulling up that clip from the conference again. The one with the woman who managed to torch my entire career philosophy in under five minutes flat.

Kamari Westbrook.

I watch the footage again, this time without the irritation, without the defensive edge. Just her. The way she commands that stage like she owns it. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted in quiet defiance.

That voice… smooth, clear, and edged sharp like it’s drawing blood.

“…Don’t ask why the empire is burning if you ignored every smoke signal along the way.”

The words hit harder on the second listen, like they were aimed straight at me and fired point-blank. I exhale through my nose, slow and steady. Tension coils tight under my skin. And then I smile. Not the lazy, camera-ready grin I toss to reporters. This one’s real. The dangerous kind.

My thumb hovers over the screen as I flip back to @Baseliner23’s feed. The faint blue glow paints my smirk in a predatory light.

“Let’s see how far you’re willing to play this game, Dr. Westbrook,” I murmur, my gaze flicking back to the skyline stretched out before me like a kingdom just begging for a little fire.

Game on.