One: Pierce

ONE

PIERCE

Three Months Before “Day One”

C harity parties with the rich were the worst type of parties on the planet. There was no celebratory song to mark when the guests could slip through the nearest exit, and no gift presentation to segue into the host saying, “Thank you so much for coming, don’t feel bad for leaving early.”

They were a never-ending charade of wealthy people putting on airs and acting like they cared about whatever cause was on the ten-thousand-dollar-per-plate menu.

Tonight’s cause was “Winter Scarves and Mittens for Kids.” Why no one mentioned the kids would probably prefer coats over accessories, I didn’t know.

I also didn’t ask.

As the newest owner of the Brooklyn Jets basketball team and the second-youngest billionaire in this city, I had to show my face at these things often.

Unfortunately.

“Congratulations, Mr. Dawson!” Timothy Weir, the CEO of JMC, patted me on the back. “Hopefully, the team can have a better record than last year, now that you’re the owner.”

“It’ll be hard for them to do worse than 0-82.”

“Oh, I bet!” He laughed. “How embarrassing that they didn’t win a single game! Is that a record?”

“Yes…”

“Bahahaha—” He was still laughing. “I still remember when you were the number one draft pick. Do you ever long for the days when you played in the NBA?”

His words stabbed me in the chest, and I looked right through him.

Long ago, the Boston Celtics had drafted and promoted me as ‘ the next Larry Bird ,’ and my accomplishments during the first three seasons still held records.

But that chapter of my life was ripped out of my book without warning, just like everything else. After one too many injuries, I was forced to trade in my jersey for a three-piece business suit.

My former career was one of two topics I avoided discussing at all costs. That, and the “f”word.

Family.

“Do you still keep up with your old teammates?” he asked. “I watched a recent mini-doc where a couple of them spoke highly about your work ethic.”

“I saw that, too!” His CFO chimed in. “They said you never missed a training session, and you?—”

“Excuse me, please.” I moved past them, unable to listen anymore. “I need some fresh air.”

I weaved through the crowd, ignoring their “Was it something we said?” whispers until I reached the balcony.

The only people out herewere members of my staff, and they knew better than to bring up certain topics.

“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Dawson?” A server held out a tray of whiskey glasses.

“Yes, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He returned inside, and I stared at the site where they were set to renovate my new team’s arena.

As the crane lights blinked red, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I looked through the glass doors, spotting my top two team members engaged in conversation, so I ignored the call.

It sounded again.

Then again.

The screen showed me an unknown caller.

“I don’t know how you got this number,” I said, “but this better be a life-or-death situation.”

“Mr. Dawson, this is Detective Ryan Calvin with the Manhattan Police Department. I’m en route to your Park Avenue condo regarding an emergency.”

“What type of emergency?”

“I can’t discuss it over the phone.”

“Can you at least give me a hint?”

“No, but I wish I could, sir.” He paused. “How fast can you get home?”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

The scent of smoke sifted through the elevator doors as the car rose. When the doors glided open, soft grey puffs smacked me in the face.

Where the hell is the fire department?

Panicking, I pushed the doors open, hoping everything inside wasn’t burned to ash.

In the living room, faint smoke clouds drifted across my ceiling, and my eight-year-old niece Olivia rocked back and forth.

“Hey, Uncle Brooks. ” She smiled, dragging out my middle name like she always did. “How was the charity party?”

“What happened while I was gone, Olivia?”

“Nothing.” Her cheeks reddened. “Nothing happened at all.”

“Then why did I get a call from the police?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I turned off the stove seconds after the countertops caught fire.”

“What?” I rushed past her and into the kitchen.

Jesus Christ.

My custom white backsplash was now sporting black soot, and the flames under the griddle were still burning. I opened every window and programmed every fan to run on full blast.

I took a deep breath and tossed charred towels and pans into the trash.

“Olivia, why didn’t you call me about this?”

“You said not to bother you unless your house was on fire.” She crossed her arms. “This was only the kitchen.”

That’s actually a good point.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked.

“No.” I sighed. “I’m mad at your mother for taking advantage of my limited kindness.” I checked my calendar. “She’s still flying you back to Los Angeles this weekend, correct?”

“Yep.” She nodded. “She said that leaving me with you for four months was long enough.”

“Be sure to tell her you’ve been here for nine ,” I said. “Oh, and that she owes me a huge ‘thank you’ in return.”

“Here you go.” She pulled a ‘thanks so much, Big Bro’ card from her pocket, and I held back a laugh.

Even though her mother and I didn’t come from the same bloodline, we’d grown up together as a makeshift quilt of a family, thanks to desperate adopters who took us in. We were the patchwork pieces no one else wanted, and those feelings were still stitched into us.

I picked up a burnt bottle of sprinkles and shook my head.

“What exactly were you trying to make tonight, Olivia?” I asked.

“Unicorn cupcakes.”

“Next time you feel like cooking sweets, order from a bakery. Clear?”

“Clear. Can I order some now, then?”

Dingggg! Donggg!

“Stay right there.” I rushed to the door, finding myself face to face with a man in a tan suit and a woman dressed in light blue scrubs.

For some strange reason, there were no firefighters standing behind them, and they looked like someone had just died.

“Okay, look,” I said, “Whatever damage my niece caused in this building, I’ll pay for it. Just send me the bill.”

“I’m afraid our presence is about a far more complex issue,” the man said. “This is Nurse Walton from Grace Medical, and I’m the detective who called you earlier. Mind if we come in?”

“If you insist.” I opened the door and motioned for them to follow me. “Ignore the haziness. My niece felt like baking while I was away.”

“Wait a minute.” The detective stopped walking. “You left a seven-year-old child home alone?”

“She’s eight going on nine.”

“But you left her here by herself?”

“I need you to stay on topic, detective,” I said. “You made me—I mean us—rush home from a very important event, and it doesn’t look like the world has ended or anyone has died.”

He and the nurse exchanged nervous glances.

“There’s no easy way to break this news, Mr. Dawson,” he said. “We’re here tonight because a relative listed you as a biological family member during a recent hospital stay.”

“You must have the wrong guy, then.” I crossed my arms. “Everyone in this city knows I was orphaned, then adopted.”

“Unfortunately, the woman in question passed away due to severe complications after childbirth,” he continued talking as if he hadn’t heard a word I said. “But we gathered crucial information from notes she left behind with the infant children.”

“Am I speaking a foreign language?” I asked. “I don’t have any living relatives.”

“The children will be held in the intensive care unit for three weeks, but you’ll need to make arrangements or sign off on leaving them with the state.”

“Okay.” I couldn’t believe I left the party for this. “You both owe me an apology for wasting my time tonight. Feel free to walk yourselves out.”

“Congratulations, you’re the father.” Nurse Walton held up a picture of my ex-girlfriend, Lisa Heights.

Sporting a blue and white hospital gown, she was holding two bundled babies against her chest. An engagement ring shone brightly on her left hand—a gift from the man she’d left me for last year.

Her wedding was scheduled for December, and I wasn’t on the guest list.

Unsure of what the hell she’d told these people or why I was struggling to process the thought of her passing away, I knew those kids weren’t mine.

They couldn’t be mine.

“You have the wrong guy, and you’re at the wrong condo,” I enunciated every syllable, hoping this would enhance their comprehension skills. “Lisa moved on to someone else right after we broke up the last time.”

“Given what we know about this situation,” the officer said, “the newborns in question are ninety-nine percent yours.”

“In that case, let’s get someone to run a test on that lingering one percent.”

“ Seriously ?” The nurse scoffed. “Please tell me you’re joking…”

“I haven’t seen Lisa in over seven months.” I wasn’t laughing at all. “That was also the last time we had sex.”

“Do we need to walk you through how pregnancy works, Mr. Dawson?”

“We always used condoms.”

“They’re not made of steel…”

Silence.

“I’m not a father.” I shook my head, refusing to accept this. This was an elaborate prank by one of the charities I’d helped, and cameramen were recording my reaction from afar.

“You should try to get in touch with Lisa’s fiancé,” I said. “I’m not a skilled detective, but I would probably use my time to talk to him.”

“He’s planning her funeral,” the nurse said. “He also took a paternity test in good faith, and he wants nothing to do with the kids.”

“So, he’s admitting to being a deadbeat father?”

“He’s not the father.” She rolled her eyes. “Just sign them over to us so we can notify the state, and we’ll get out of your way.”

“Gladly.” I pulled a pen from my pocket, and she held out a clipboard.

“Make sure to check the fourth box, which says you’re fully aware that this may result in two separate adoption or foster appointments,” the detective said. “The state usually tries to keep siblings together, but there’s no guarantee.”

My hand froze in mid-air. “What do you mean, try to keep them together?”

“Why do you care?” She shrugged. “You seem to be far more concerned with that basketball team you just bought. Spoiler alert: They suck, and they will continue to suck, no matter who owns them.”

I ignored her comment.

“Would you like to take a proper DNA test and think about your decision?” the detective asked.

I didn’t answer, but he snapped on a pair of gloves and held out a cotton swab.

Taking it, I swirled it under my tongue for a few seconds.

“We’ll put a rush on it and contact you as soon as we have the results.” He sealed it into a bag and headed toward the door.

“Oh, and here.” The nurse handed me two plastic wristbands. “Just in case you want to stop by and meet your biological, ‘they’re-definitely- yours ’ children.”